


Extraction

by holmesian_love



Series: Extraction [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-04
Updated: 2020-10-04
Packaged: 2021-03-08 02:27:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 28,594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26768002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/holmesian_love/pseuds/holmesian_love
Summary: After Reichenbach, during his hunt to overcome Moriarty's network, Sherlock is captured and tortured, in Serbia.While Mycroft spends a month working overtime to find his brother, with agents reporting back and an extraction team in place, John's world is turned upside down, after a surprise delivery shakes his foundations. He is forced back into the world of Sherlock Holmes, completely unprepared to face the consulting detective.The extraction is only the beginning for these three men as they face the consequences of past actions.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: Extraction [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2087607
Comments: 105
Kudos: 128
Collections: HolmesCon Writers Collection, Sherlock Author Showcase 2020





	1. Sherlock

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sandrina](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sandrina/gifts).



The frustration was real. Days were bleeding into one another and Sherlock’s once astute mind had become a foggy grey mulch – like the stale cold porridge he was being fed. It was a challenge to even stay conscious these days or keep track of how the hours passed. He _had_ been keeping track, for as long as he could. The last known day was a Tuesday. He could see the marks on the wall, painfully etched into the stone with a fingernail – his finger, now bruised and stained with dried blood as proof that it really happened. But that had been hours, or even days ago and he had no idea now. He thought it wouldn’t matter, but it had started to mock him. The fact that he didn’t know what day it was had been like a blessing in the beginning – a relief from the constant cataloguing of days and injuries. Now it was insulting. The reality that his mind was slipping away had sent him into a more depressed state than he had ever known before. If he was going to die here, in this cell, he couldn’t bear the realisation that it was without his mind. It was slowly being lost to him. 

He took in the cell, or what little he could see in the dim light. The walls were dark stone – some sort of ancient, hand-constructed dungeon, he imagined. The air was too damp; the walls were covered with moss and Sherlock’s lungs felt like they were growing it too. He had developed a cough which was unfortunate as he was pretty sure the most recent torture session had left him with broken ribs and the pain of coughing was unbearable. The cell had no windows, no way of keeping track of time, no light to dry out any of the moisture. He could hear dripping water echoing in the corridor nearby. It was possible they were under a river or lake, or near some sort of running waterway, but he had no way of confirming that. He assumed he was still in Serbia, based on the conversations he could hear as his captors argued over what to do with him. It was possible that these people were connected to Moriarty, although he assumed if that were so, he would have been killed by now. It was possible that this was an unfortunate misstep with no connection to his mission. Either way it was inconvenient. They had taken his coat away (thankfully not his beloved Belstaff, which he had left in his brother’s care), but he had otherwise not been well dressed for the weather. They had given him a very threadbare blanket which he had taken to resting his aching head on, instead of wrapping himself with it, but the chilled and dank air was taking its toll, and he shivered constantly. The cold reached deep into his bones; those that they hadn’t already broken, ached from it. He hugged his arms tightly around his torso to support his ribs, which helped lessen the pain, and warmed him a little in the process.

“This is it, John. This is where I die,” Sherlock said to the dark room. 

“It’s not like you to talk like that,” John said from the corner, slightly concerned. 

“Well I’m talking to _you_ , so I’m clearly not in my right mind, considering you’ve begun to answer back now,” Sherlock said, rolling his eyes in John’s direction. The movement of his head smarted from the pain and he moved it back again. 

“Sherlock—” 

“It’s okay, John. I know you’re not _really_ here. I’m losing track of time, not my sanity… yet. The pain and the lack of light and food… it’s a completely normal human response.” 

John scoffed in response, crossing his arms but staying silent. 

Sherlock had found comfort in his new routine: the more confused and delirious he became, the more often John appeared. It was an interesting feature his mind palace had developed during this isolation, one he wasn’t entirely unhappy with. He preferred these awake hallucinations to the repeated nightmares of his sleeping hours, of that much he was certain. Staying awake and talking through his thoughts with John, as he suffered through the consequences of sleep deprivation was a much more pleasant way to pass the time. When he slept, the sound of John screaming his name would always wake him and would ring in his ears for hours after. Reliving the moment he had to say goodbye, and hearing what it did to John, was a torture all of its own. 

_My best friend, John_.

Leaving John behind had been the hardest thing Sherlock had ever had to do. He had never expected to find someone like John: someone who calmly took on all his faults, all of his rudeness – so deliberately and acutely refined to keep people at a distance. But John was fascinating. Sherlock had been intrigued from the very first day. John had become invaluable to the cases: shining a light for Sherlock; always finding the important elements; teaching him to look at the human side of things. No-one had ever understood what Sherlock needed better than the army doctor. Sherlock hadn’t always been good to John, he knew that. But somehow the man didn’t mind. John was steadfast and faithful and the longer they had lived together, Sherlock had slowly begun to realise how much John really meant to him. Very few people had ever made an impact in his life. Mrs Hudson and Lestrade, of course, had cared for him through some very dark times. Mycroft – while infuriating – had saved him from himself many times. He was smug about it too – annoyingly so. But he couldn’t fault how incredible his brother had been in taking care of all the details and making sure everything went smoothly in his demise. John was safe. _Everyone_ was safe. And up to this point, Sherlock had been successful in his mission to destroy Moriarty’s network. Soon, he could go home. Home to John. He wasn’t completely finished yet, but this slight snag was, hopefully, only temporary. _Surely_. He knew Mycroft was monitoring him. This capture would not last long. But it was certainly lasting longer than he had expected it to. Or at least it certainly _felt_ that way. If he could only keep his mind focussed on how long it had been. But John was here, keeping him company, and that was enough for now. 

“You can’t keep me here with you, you know,” John said quietly from his corner. Sherlock was irritated that the room was too dark, and he could only see some of John’s face – a light from further down the corridor creating a small glow in his cell. He wondered briefly if it was a sign that his mind was also already forgetting John’s face. He didn’t think that would ever be possible though. 

“Why not? It’s perfectly okay,” Sherlock responded stubbornly. 

“It’s not a _good_ sign, Sherlock. You’re malnourished, dehydrated. This is a sign you need help,” John said, with his ever-annoying realism. 

“Thank you, Doctor,” Sherlock retorted, annoyed. “Mycroft will be here soon, John. Do keep up.” 

“How? How is he going to be here?” John questioned. 

“Tracker. Under my skin. _Do_ _relax_. We thought of everything,” Sherlock tried to say, with arrogance, despite shivering and feeling slightly feverish. 

“You didn’t think about _me_ though, did you?” John said sadly. “How I would feel?”

 _That’s all I thought about_ , Sherlock mused quietly to himself. He couldn’t even say it aloud to imaginary John. He swallowed hard. He knew this was his own mind talking in John’s voice. But his biggest fear was that all the work they had done to push John away, to keep him safe, might mean that he would never see John again. Or if he did, that he may never be forgiven for it. He had made great progress until this ridiculous hiccup. This temporary setback. But Sherlock didn’t enjoy being stuck in one place, only his mind to occupy him. It was never healthy. John served nicely for some visual variety at least, but he was getting meaner, the longer Sherlock was stuck here. 

“He’s not coming, you know,” John scoffed from the corner again. 

“What makes you say that?” 

“Well wouldn’t he be here by now?” John nagged.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Sherlock said with renewed confidence, trying to be charming, “he does like to be stubborn.” 

“No, Sherlock, that’s you. _You_ like to be stubborn. He would never leave you here this long if he could help it.” 

“I can wait. I’ll be fine.” 

“You’re not, you know. _Fine_. You’re _not_ ,” John pointed out. 

“Shut up, who asked you?” Sherlock rebuffed. 

“You did. I _am_ you. Remember?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and turned himself over on his side, facing the wall, so he didn’t have to look at imaginary John. Gasping from the pain, he reminded himself that lying on his side was excruciating and rolled onto his back again. But when he glanced back over, imaginary John was gone. He was left in the dark, cold empty cell. Alone once again, with the pain coursing through him, and he shivered. 


	2. John

“SHERLOCK!” 

John sat up in bed, waking himself as he screamed. He rubbed his face with his left hand and let out a sigh, resting his body weight on the other arm behind him. This was almost a nightly occurrence – and thus no surprise – but it frustrated him no end. He was no stranger to PTSD and recurring nightmares. After being in battle it was almost something you looked forward to, like an old friend. The nightmares, he could rely on. Friends were never reliable. People in general always let you down. _Sherlock let me down,_ he thought before he could stop himself. He looked up at his ceiling and let out a deep sigh. Just as his war dreams had been a morbid routine, reliving the moment Sherlock jumped had become an intangible part of his evening routine which his masochistic side almost looked forward to. Reliving that moment had also become the last tangible memory of Sherlock in his mind. It was terrifying and awful, yet he got to see his friend each night, so he made no effort to get rid of it, to seek help. But once he was awake, the guilt running around in his head was far worse. _My fault._

He kicked his legs out and sat himself on the side of the bed, taking in a few more deep breaths as his body registered the sensations of the room, of reality. His toes wriggled as they adjusted to the cold floor. He rubbed his hands over his face again, and then through his hair as he let out a groan and glanced at the glowing numbers on his bedside clock. 

_2:06am._

“Right then,” he said to himself as he stood up. He grabbed his dressing gown off the chair near his bed, and wrapped it roughly around himself to warm up, slid his feet into his slippers and shuffled out to the kitchen to make a cup of tea. _No point going back to sleep just yet._

Every time he woke and walked out of his room, the realisation that he was not at Baker Street still caught him by surprise. Even eighteen months later, it was still always a sharp jolt, and no number of days that passed ever made it easier. No amount of time was lessening the pain of what had happened. _Whoever said time heals all wounds, was an idiot_. John couldn’t help smiling to himself and rolling his eyes. He could hear Sherlock’s voice in his head, even when he was awake. Especially when he was awake.But the guilt always hit him hard afterwards. John’s guilt was swallowing him up, one day at a time. _What if I hadn’t said those things? What if I had pushed harder for Sherlock to let me help on the case? What if I had said different things on that last phone call? What if I had run up to the roof to stop him? What if Sherlock had known how I really felt?_

He moved about the kitchen in a half-awake state, clicking the electric kettle to boil, finding his mug, getting out a teabag from the jar on the counter. He tipped one spoon of sugar into the cup with the teaspoon he left on the counter, ready for that purpose. He took a few more loud breaths, trying to clear his head. He let out a sigh and grabbed for a glass tumbler in the cabinet above his head and the scotch bottle. He really should move it so as not to be tempted, but of course he wouldn’t. He knew that already. He always saw it there in the cabinet, mocking him, and no matter how hard he tried to resist, he always found himself reaching up for the bottle almost subconsciously. He was an idiot through and through – as Sherlock would always remind him. He downed the amber liquid while he waited for the kettle to boil, closing his eyes to enjoy the burning sensation as it travelled down his throat and into his chest, settling there with a warmth that seemed to be the only thing able to comfort him these days. He poured a second nip and raised the glass in the air. 

“To you, Sherlock Holmes. You selfish bastard.” 

Of course, Sherlock never answered back. At least he knew he wasn’t _that_ crazy. Yet every now and then, he had to say something to him. Though he didn’t really believe in the afterlife, since Sherlock’s death, he had spoken to him more candidly than he had been able to in real life. His therapist had told him he should speak the truth – say what it was he was holding so tightly guarded. But he would never say any of that to her, or to anyone. He could only say it to Sherlock – at his grave, or any time he was alone really. Only then did he feel as though his thoughts were safe. 

“You left me here and now look at me. I’m an empty shell, just like I was before we met. I hope you’re happy,” he said, before emptying the contents of the glass again and slamming it onto the counter. 

The kettle finally boiled, and he made himself a cup of tea, then went to the lounge room to sit on the couch and stare mindlessly into space as he cupped the warm mug in his hands. His apartment was so bland, and tidy and soulless. He remembered the day he came to Baker Street and met Sherlock. The apartment was a mess and at first, he had thought it would be unbearable. But something in the chaos and eccentricities of that apartment, of Sherlock himself, had allowed John to feel completely free and happy and at home. It made him angry to look at his own boring life spelled out in the bland furnishings. No skull on the mantle, no charmingly mismatched furniture. Even his newspapers were neatly folded and placed in a sensible pile. His military upbringing was somewhat of a curse. He missed the excitement of Baker Street so much his chest ached. Or maybe that was just a sign he needed to drink less at two in the morning? He laughed mirthlessly to himself. 

He put the teacup onto the side table and grabbed the pile of mail he had ignored earlier, uninterested at the end of a long day. Electricity bill – _that could wait –_ he threw it back on the table, a letter addressed to the neighbour (the new postie really was not as good as old Stanley who had retired), and a small padded package. He sat more upright on the couch, turning the package over with interest, but no return address was on the back of it. He wrestled with the flap, firmly stuck down – enough so that he had to get up and find something to help slice it open. He grabbed at his keys on the stand near the door and scrubbed at it roughly, trying to loosen it. The flap gave way so suddenly that the package and his keys fell to the ground and a small memory stick fell out onto the floor. John’s brow creased as he bent over to pick it, and the packaging up, looking inside for any more information. There was nothing else, just the stick. He held it between his fingers, turning it around to see if any labelling or markings would give away what it was for. Still nothing. He collected his keys off the ground and put them back, cursing himself internally for the need to once again be tidy and predictable. _No wonder Sherlock thought I was boring_. Grabbing his tea and sitting back down, he played with the memory stick between his fingers some more as he drank, assessing the weight of it, the texture – as if any of that would tell him anything. He knew Sherlock would probably have deduced seven possibilities by now, based on the type of delivery satchel and the brand and size of the memory stick, but John had never – in all their time together – got more skilled at it. He had tried, many times, to use deductions in his daily life, to see if he had perhaps gained some of Sherlock’s talent, only to be disappointed. It only served to make him angrier at the world, and at Sherlock. 

Draining the last of his tea wanting to distract his mind from drifting down the usual 2am Sherlock rabbit hole, he stood up suddenly and walked over to the little table by the window where his laptop was. 

_No point wondering about this, Watson. Might as well find out_ , he heard Sherlock’s voice instructing in his head. 

“Yes, all right, all right. Just wait,” he said aloud, unintentionally, and then blushed at his foolishness, despite the fact no-one could see or hear him. _I really am an idiot, aren’t I?_ he thought to himself. He turned the laptop towards himself, choosing to stand up and not settle into the chair. His fight or flight instinct was alert – as if running would save him from whatever was on the memory stick. He opened it and logged in to the first screen, placing the memory stick into the slot. He sucked in a breath, as the memory stick’s name jumped up into his computer drive list. _“Miss Me?”_ it was labelled, mockingly. His heart rate started to pound, and he steadied himself on the desk. _Maybe I should sit down for this_ , he thought to himself, but he was unable to move. After a few deep breaths, he clicked on the folder, revealing only one movie file as its contents. He was terrified of what it would reveal and yet he knew he had to find out. Before he could second guess himself, he clicked on the file and a window expanded onto the screen. He pressed the play button and the video began: an empty chair on screen, the sounds of scuffling behind the camera. The video had last week’s date displayed on the bottom right corner, clear as day, to verify it was current. John could feel his blood throbbing in his ears now, worried for what was about to come. 

On the screen, a figure was thrown unceremoniously onto the chair. For a brief moment, John wasn’t sure, but of course he couldn’t mistake those curls, those cheekbones, that deep voice. Despite the blood and bruises, and the severely emaciated figure in front of him on the screen, he knew it was Sherlock Holmes. He stumbled backwards, tripping on the edge of the rug and hitting the floor hard. 

_“Sher… Sherlock?”_ he whispered to the empty room. _“What the hell…?”_


	3. Mycroft

“I sincerely hope you’re joking… it was buried beneath his skin so how could it… I see… I see… yes, I understand that… fine. _Fine_. Keep me informed.” Mycroft hung up the phone and rested his head in his hands. He knew his younger brother was very capable. He would not have let Sherlock tackle the network alone if he didn’t have faith in those skills. Sherlock was determined to be the one to bring them down. And to do it alone. He was stubborn, but all the Holmeses were. The plan had been seamless, until recently. 

“Oh Sherlock. What have you done?” he said quietly to the room. 

He didn’t know how he was going to proceed, but he knew he would have to travel to Serbia. Immediately. Grabbing the phone up again, he made a quick call. 

“Anthea, I’ll need the jet ready this morning. As soon as possible. Ask the captain to make arrangements for Serbia. We’ll need the Plan C setup too. Yes with medical. And the car. Yes. Yes. Let me know when it’s ready.” 

As he placed the phone back down, he could hear a commotion in the corridor outside his private room. The Diogenes Club had strict rules about noise and admitting people to the more private area where Mycroft enjoyed working through the night. He only knew one person, aside from his reckless brother, who was prone to making loud visits, unannounced and sure enough: when he looked up, it was just in time to see John Watson storming into the office. The club’s security was trailing behind, trying to grab at his arm.

Mycroft instantly waved the security officer away, looking John up and down calmly. He was used to John’s angry visits. If anything, he admitted to himself that he’d missed them. John had been notably absent over the last eighteen months. On the one hand, Mycroft had been relieved. It was much easier to deal with the deception and the stress of the mission, without John’s pain being visible. Of course, he was still keeping an eye on John anyway, as he had promised. But John didn’t know that. He was too caught up in his own depression to even notice. On the other hand, he struggled with staying silent, despite his promises to Sherlock. John had accepted the reality of Sherlock’s death way too easily. He wondered if his brother would be missing, be in trouble like this, if he had listened to sense and brought John in on the plan. A small part of him had hoped John would have stormed in a lot earlier and demanded the truth. He may have even been tempted to cave and tell all. But John had stayed absent and this visit was unexpected. 

“Is it true?” John demanded. 

Mycroft measured the look on John’s face, looked down at the desk and then back at John. 

“At least you have the decency not to lie to my face,” John said with an angry sniff. 

“John, it’s four in the morning. What are you doing?” Mycroft asked calmly. Secretly though, his heart rate had picked up. He was always worried he was one step away from being found out. 

John walked over to Mycroft’s desk and slammed down the memory stick. “How long?” he demanded. 

Mycroft didn’t answer. 

“How long’s he been missing?” John continued. 

“I—” Mycroft began, not sure how to answer. 

“Mycroft.” John looked at him. “I swear to god, if I’ve just found out that he’s really alive, only to find out that he has been killed… I _will_ break every bone in your body!” 

Mycroft raised his eyebrows. “I might just let you.” 

Without saying a word, Mycroft picked up the memory stick and placed it in his computer, starting up the file. His face paled further as he took in the footage. He stopped it for a moment and looked over at John who was also pale. “How...?” 

“Delivered to my flat. I’ve watched it three times already. I can’t… I don’t know what you two have done, but I want in on this,” John demanded. 

“John, you won’t get clearance,” Mycroft said calmly in response. 

“You can _get_ me clearance Mycroft. You _will_ get me clearance. And you aren’t going without me. Not this time. Get the clearance.” 

“John—” 

“I’m not going to argue,” John was firm. 

“Sherlock…” Mycroft began to say, then changed his mind when John fired him a pained look at the sound of the name. “... _he_ won’t like it,” he warned. 

“When have you ever cared about that? You _know_ you’re going to need someone with medical background, and you’re going to need someone with military training who’s a good shot. You _know_ I can do this. I want in. I don’t want to be left out of the loop again. You owe me.” 

“Okay. Okay,” Mycroft finally conceded, hands raised in defeat. “Leave it with me. Why don’t you go home and pack? I’ll send a car.” 

“Already packed,” John responded. “My bag is checked at the front desk with the concierge.” 

“Fine. Take a seat, have a drink. I’ll get started.” 

“That’s more like it,” John said, nodding as he sat in a chair. 

Mycroft pressed play and continued to watch as Sherlock spoke to the camera, pleading for his life. They both could tell he was being coerced into this. Sherlock was not one to beg for his life, ever. But whatever they had threatened must have been good enough to have him follow their prompts. Mycroft watched it twice before closing down the laptop screen and shutting his eyes. His brother was unrecognisable. His curls were matted with sweat and blood, his face bruised beyond recognition, his skin dark from grime. His breathing and his words were laboured, suggesting internal injuries, probably broken ribs, possibly a chest infection of some kind. He was far too thin. Mycroft had seen his brother at his very worst – through drugs and countless injuries and illnesses, but nothing as bad as this. This was alarming and the sense of urgency that was building in his gut made it hard for him to think straight. He prided himself on calmly being able to handle any crisis. But when it came to Sherlock, his emotions were interfering. 

“Mycroft…?” John asked uncertain, and even more worried seeing his reaction. “Is this Moriarty? Is this… _what_ is this exactly?” 

“He was okay, John. He _was_ okay,” Mycroft understood. He realised now, once John had let off steam, that the initial shock would be wearing off and John would be falling fast; the reality of the deception would be kicking in. “Everything was fine… until about a month ago.” 

“A _month_?! He’s been missing a whole… a whole month?” 

“It’s not unheard of,” Mycroft sounded way too calm, for John’s liking. “It’s happened before. Sometimes the transmitter goes offline. It’s always come back on, though. I’ve had people close by as well, for backup. This time though they… my people… they found the tracker. It had been removed.” 

“Oh god,” John rubbed his hands over his face. “Maybe he cut it out himself?” 

“Most likely,” Mycroft agreed, nodding. He had always respected John’s no-nonsense approach. 

“ _You_ think he’s been taken, though?” John deduced. “That it’s connected to Moriarty?”

“It certainly seems so now, yes.” Mycroft held John’s stare. “If they knew to send this to you. I had someone trailing him and the trail has gone cold.” 

“Mycroft…” John sounded nervous and slightly ill. 

“It’s all right John. We _will_ find him,” Mycroft reassured him, walking to the side of the room and pouring them both a nip of scotch. He handed John one glass and took a sip from the other one, resting his weight against the front of the desk, observing John. John was too thin, too pale and unshaved. He had definitely not been doing well. 

“You look like hell,” Mycroft said, finally. 

“Thanks,” John gave a cold sarcastic laugh. “And you’ve actually lost weight.” 

“John Watson, I believe that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me,” Mycroft said, raising his eyebrows. John laughed into his glass and they both sipped silently for a moment. “Stress will do that,” Mycroft finally added. John nodded and made a hum in agreement. 

“Sherlock looks far too skinny,” John commented.

“Yes, he’s been on the run. He was already far too thin for my liking but this last leg, even before he was captured… he was already dangerously thin and now, in captivity…” Mycroft didn’t finish the thought.

“Have you got the files? Can I—?” John asked tentatively. 

“Here.” Mycroft walked back around his desk and grabbed them – they had been close-to-hand already. “You know I have to say, I’m actually relieved that you know.” 

John closed his eyes at the realisation that he had spent so long thinking Sherlock was dead, and all the while his brother had known it all. Had probably been responsible for planning the bloody thing. He shook his head to himself as his mind began whirring with the possibilities. _It’s just a trick. Just a magic trick._

“Doctor Watson?” Mycroft interrupted. 

“Hmm?” John opened his eyes, realising he had been a million miles away. 

“I’m sorry.” It was genuine. John wasn’t sure he had ever heard Mycroft apologise for anything. Not intentionally, and certainly not where his brother was concerned. John looked at him with surprise. “It was very important to Sherlock that you were protected… at all costs. I did suggest that it was a bad idea. That you would… that you should be… that is, I know how much you… that you both…” 

“Thank you,” John answered simply, before Mycroft fell off the verbal ledge he was teetering on. 

“I know it’s a lot to take in,” he conceded. 

“I’ll manage,” John replied. “Let’s just get him home first, okay?” 


	4. Rescued

“Well John, today’s session was _particularly_ brutal,” Sherlock told the empty room, his body adjusting to the hard, stone slab that was his bed. Between words he panted, as talking and breathing in general had become harder. “An interesting mix of violence and emotional torture today… difficult to breathe now… I suspect… they’ve… punctured… my lung.” He paused to suck in some shallow breaths and take a break for a moment, his eyes squinted shut against the pain. “They’ve taken out some of my teeth too… tore off a fingernail… that’s going to hurt for a while… these people are serious… maybe a little kinky.” He grinned wickedly to himself, trying to make light of his situation. “I’m pretty sure _both_ my legs are now broken, actually…” He opened his eyes and glanced across the room to the corner where John would stand. “You know… you’re _supposed_ to be a doctor?” 

“I _am_ a doctor,” John answered sardonically, rolling his eyes at Sherlock’s dramatics. He leaned against the wall, arms crossed, and swapped his left ankle over his right, looking down at the ground impatiently. 

“Well can’t you… help me? Give me… something?” he pleaded. It made his skin crawl hearing how pathetic he was starting to sound. And how hard it was becoming to even talk. 

“Well I’m not really _here_ though, am I?” John reminded him. “Can’t really magic pain meds out of thin air.”

Sherlock closed his eyes again, annoyed at himself. It was getting harder to keep track of reality. He had started shaking again from the cold, and the pain it was causing made it hard to concentrate. 

“You know, having you here… is better... than _not_ having you... here… even though… you’re not _really_ here.” Sherlock paused for more breaths. “Do you think… do you think…” 

“Save your strength,” John said calmly, walking over to perch on the edge of the stone slab. 

As he came closer, Sherlock could make out more of his face, his beautiful face. He could really see his eyes. God he’d missed those eyes. 

“Tell me... something? A story… while I... try to sleep?” Sherlock asked weakly, his body shaking uncontrollably from the shock and the cold. 

“Okay, close your eyes,” John instructed Sherlock, watching him, waiting for him to accept the instruction. Sherlock didn’t want to miss a second of looking at John up this close, but he eventually obeyed, and John began. 

“That first day we met? I walked into the lab with Mike, and I was busy looking around the room remembering the old days and then… I saw you. You weren’t really looking at me at first. But I saw you and it was like being hit between the eyes. You were the most ethereal, gorgeous creature I’d ever seen. You asked Mike for his phone and I thought if I offered _my_ phone, you might look at me, talk to me. You would probably turn me down, because you didn’t know me. But instead, you looked right at me… _right at me_ … with those eyes. My breath hitched, and it was like my heart actually stopped beating. Like time stood still for that moment. And I knew I would follow you anywhere you asked. And the rest of it was history. You, me, that crazy adventure. It was like a blur. I barely had time to catch a breath. And then before I knew it, I was standing there with a gun in my hand, protecting you. And I would do it a thousand times over Sherlock – and I did. Until…” 

“John—” There was so much Sherlock wanted to say to John. To apologise for. But he had wasted his time with John in here and not said any of it out loud. Even though he knew this wasn’t really _his_ John, and this was probably far from how John really remembered their first meeting, he knew he could have used his time – trapped in this dungeon with imaginary John – better. And now it felt suddenly so much more important to say things, but he had so much less strength to get the words out. 

“Let’s not talk about that, Sherlock. I want you to hang in there, for _me_.” John pleaded, seemingly sensing how much Sherlock was struggling. 

“John,” Sherlock fought to use his voice, the words coming out raspier and more whispered now. “I’m not sure… I can… this time.” He gave John a pursed smile in apology, which took a lot of effort. 

“You survived falling off a building,” John said a little cruelly, egging him on. “Or was that really just a trick?” 

“Of course… it was a trick. Just… a magic… trick… not the same,” Sherlock argued. Oh how he’d missed the banter between them. If only he had the energy to fully relish it more right now.

“Of course it is, Sherlock. Of course, it’s the same. Only this time, you need to come _back to me_.” John moved over to sit on the edge of the stone-bed, as close as he had ever been in here and Sherlock was sure he could smell John’s aftershave. 

“Stop it,” he said, more to himself, now that he realised how much his mind had warped everything. This was his own doing and he couldn’t bear it anymore. 

“Stop what?” John asked him. “This?” he asked, as he brushed Sherlock’s curls back from his forehead affectionately. 

“Yes… that,” Sherlock said, annoyed, trying to shake his head but lacking the strength. “Stop it. You’re not… really here. John would never… really…” 

“You _need_ to come back to me, Sherlock,” John said, enticing him fiercely. 

_This is just my imagination. I know that,_ he thought to himself, not even bothering to say it aloud anymore. It hurt too much. _This isn’t real._

“Sherlock…” John teased gently, as he leaned forward and whispered into Sherlock’s ear, before kissing his forehead with _those lips_. The lips Sherlock used to longingly steal glimpses of when John wasn't looking. The lips that had never been anywhere _near_ Sherlock's personal space before. It felt so frighteningly real, that Sherlock realised he had probably slipped beyond playful imaginings into a full-blown hallucinatory state. He was probably desperately in need of medical attention now. It was too late. _Real John would never..._ Sherlock let out a long breath and closed his eyes again, enjoying every imagined sensation of the moment. Just one moment.

In the distance, just beyond the fuzzy part of his unconsciousness, some noises began to disturb the peace he was enjoying. 

“Where is he?!” a demanding and familiar voice sounded through the corridors, from very far off. 

“John,” urged another familiar voice Sherlock couldn’t place. 

_“John?”_ Sherlock whispered weakly into the room. But his John didn’t respond. His eyes were too heavy to contemplate opening.

“No! I am _not_ playing games! WHERE IS HE!?” the strong voice yelled, echoing down the corridor and bouncing off the walls of the cell. 

Sherlock heard a gunshot, and his eyes flew open. John was gone, and he felt disappointment. The moment had been lovely and, although wildly romanticised and unrealistic, it was a nice fantasy to pass the time and make the pain less prominent to his senses. Still, the gunshot had grabbed his attention. There were more sounds of scuffles, and punches and groaning; bodies hitting the ground. 

“Sherlock? Sherlock! Is he down there? I swear to god if you’ve—” the strong voice threatened. 

“John. Enough. Leave this to the team.” 

Sherlock _definitely_ recognised thatsecond voice. Even in his state, his brother’s irritating voice always gave him a physical reaction. Why was Mycroft making an appearance in his fantasies? Or was he here? Had they found him? A small glimmer of hope lit up in his chest, but he lacked the strength now to even move. More sounds of feet running, doors banging, gunshots. Sherlock closed his eyes and decided to ignore it all. He didn’t have the strength to keep his eyes open anymore. 

_“_ John? Why did you go?”he pleaded softly to the room, as he let the weakness take over. 

“Sherlock? SHERLOCK!” the urgent voice called in the distance. 

“I’m here… John... I’m here…” his voice faded away as he started losing consciousness. 

The distant noises became louder as they got closer, and the familiar sound of his cage being opened, brought him back from the brink. A cage was all you could call it. He had been reduced to a caged animal, and they were going to experiment on him again. He couldn’t bear the thought of being tortured again so soon. He wasn’t sure he could make it through another session. Even a mind as strong as his had finally begun to break. He started to sob weakly to himself at the thought of more pain. But even that hurt him, so he stopped. 

“Please. No. Please,” he rasped out on shallow breaths. 

“Sherlock!” the familiar voice cried out in relief, grabbing at his arm. 

Sherlock recoiled with what little strength he had left. _“No,”_ he whispered on another sob. “No more…” 

“It’s okay now. I’m here,” the voice said more gently. It sounded like… like John? But not the John he had kept in the dungeon with him. This voice sounded more real, and full of urgency, full of pain. “I’ve got you, Sherlock. I’m here…” the man said, his voice raspy and desperate. 

Sherlock tried to marry the voice he heard with his memories to figure out if it was, indeed, John. But it couldn’t possibly be. John was in London. John thought he was dead. John would never forgive him, let alone be here in the dungeon rescuing him. He must still be hallucinating, or at least projecting another memory of John’s voice onto whoever this person was. 

“I’ve got you; do you hear? You’re safe now,” the voice reassured him, firmly, calmly, and full of determination. “Mycroft! He’s here!”

He so _wanted_ it to be John. How he longed to be near John again, _really_ near him. He felt hands brushing at his curls as he drifted further down into darkness, the cold swallowing him up finally. 


	5. Hostility

As Sherlock’s eyes fluttered open, he felt slightly confused. He knew it felt wrong – the room around him was his own bedroom, at Baker Street. He recognised his surroundings, but something felt off. The curtains were half closed, allowing a little bit of light through. But it was definitely _his_ room. Something in his memory was not settling on this idea though. He did not feel any relief that he was here. He felt a sudden movement and glanced down to find a person – a man in fact – snuggled against his chest, the warmth between them suddenly coming into focus. From the smell and the sight of his hair, Sherlock knew immediately it was John. His mind went into overdrive. 

_John is here beside me in my room? Cuddled against my body? Sleeping peacefully, his arm wrapped over my stomach?_

Sherlock’s breathing started to speed up as his brain tried to figure out what was happening. 

John looked up at him suddenly. “You okay, Sherlock?” he said calmly. 

Sherlock’s brow creased in confusion. Was this what they did normally? This seemed like such a normal, domesticated moment and yet… something in his chest hurt… something still felt… off. He smiled tentatively at John, uncertain. 

“Yesss,” he replied, his eyes glancing about the room, trying to find some clues as to what was unsettling him. 

“Shall I make us some breakfast? You need your rest,” John said pleasantly, sitting up. Sherlock felt disappointed that John had moved. But confusion was still the prevailing emotion. He felt uneasy. Something in his legs had started to hurt, like a gentle hum building to a throbbing. 

“Sherlock?” John asked again. 

“Hmmm?” Sherlock replied, trying to give John his focus. 

“You sure you’re okay?” John asked, looking concerned. Sherlock’s heart gave a happy, heavy thud. How he had missed John’s looks of concern. Why had he missed them? Why was it strange that John was here? Like this? 

“Uh, yes. I thinnnnk so,” he replied, still looking around the room, not convinced. His left cheekbone was starting to throb too, and the top of his head. His middle finger. In fact, everything was starting to ache and pound in sync with his pulse rate. He closed his eyes to brace for the onslaught of pain. 

______________________________________

“You can’t be serious?!” The shouting made Sherlock open his eyes, _really_ open them this time. His sight was blurry, his eyes felt like they had been glued together. The agonising pain was, unfortunately, a reality and he could hear the beeping of a heartrate monitor. _Not in Baker Street then,_ he mentally catalogued _._ The room was too bright, so he squinted a bit to block some of the light out. _Hospital. I’m free. Everything hurts._ He tried to make his eyes focus on the corridor outside his room. He knew that voice well. _Is it really John this time? Can it be?_

“John, you need to calm down. This isn’t helping anyone,” Mycroft said coolly, towering over him, as John paced wildly back and forth in the corridor. Sherlock tried to sit up, at the mention of John’s name, desperate to see him properly but he was unable to move, monitor wires and various tubes snagging on something as he tried to shift. Something taped to his nose was creating a hissing sound which was making it hard to listen to the sounds in the corridor. He tried to speak but his tongue was sluggish, his throat like sandpaper, and the words wouldn’t connect to thoughts in his head.

A doctor was standing in the corridor with them, in scrubs, his surgical cap in his hand, hanging by his side. 

“Have you been listening to _anything_ I’ve said?” John yelled back at Mycroft. 

“Yes. I have,” Mycroft retorted, hands on hips defensively. “You’ve been talking… constantly, I might add.” 

“Right, thanks.” John stopped pacing at the intended insult. “Then you _know_ I’ve told you that moving him in this state is against the medical advice. Right doctor?” 

“Absolutely, it’s not a good idea,” the doctor said, looking to Mycroft and nodding. His Serbian-English accent was thick.

Sherlock noticed it as he listened in, trying to understand what was happening. He realised that would mean they were still local – close to his captors. The thought made him nervous. 

“Yes, I know that,” Mycroft agreed reluctantly. “But our presence here creates a potential diplomatic incident, not to mention that there might still be people present in the country connected to his captors that we haven't accounted for,” Mycroft said pointedly to John, through gritted teeth.

John blushed and looked at the ground, under the watchful eye of the doctor. “Given that London has much better care available, when it comes to the further operations he’ll be needing… John! You of all people should appreciate what I’m trying to do here,” Mycroft added, the final nail.

“He...” John began, pointing to Sherlock’s room aggressively, “...has a collapsed lung, internal bleeding, which we’re still not exactly in the clear from, so many broken bones, Mycroft. He’s been bloody tortured for weeks in that… that dungeon! Where _you_ lost him. He’s still sedated, and it’s been barely a day since he was extubated. He’s at very high risk of further complications. And that’s just the physical injuries. What about when they taper off the sedation, hmm? PTSD? He was hallucinating when we found him — a month in that hellhole would do that to anyone. Just the pneumothorax alone would be a contraindication to flying him home. The fact he’s alive _at all_ right now, is a bloody miracle. A MIRACLE! And we haven’t even discussed how he’s going to cope coming off the meds we have had to put him on so that he wouldn’t just rip out everything and crawl out of here. He needs rest. He needs to be stable, actually stable before being moved!” John’s face was red with the anger. Mycroft could actually see in this moment, what his little brother saw in John.

“I’ll leave you two to discuss this further,” the doctor said, filling the awkward silence between them after John’s outburst. He seemed happy to leave the conversation in John’s hands for the moment.

The sight of John in the doorway, hesitating to enter, was the last thing Sherlock registered before he lost the battle for consciousness again. 


	6. Remedy

John turned to look towards Sherlock’s room, but as much as he wanted to rush in, couldn’t get his feet to travel the two metres to the doorway. Suddenly it felt like too much to bridge that gap. 

_Saving Sherlock?_ Well that had been an easy decision. He needed to know Sherlock was alive in the world, that he was safe. And if he could help, he would. But now, something was stopping John from going to him. Sherlock had not wanted him to be on this mission, he had not wanted to take John along. He had not wanted to share the plan. John knew he had been helpful to Mycroft for the rescue, but probably only because he bullied his way in. Otherwise, the Holmes brothers didn’t _really_ want John to be there, did they? Most likely, Sherlock would, upon waking up, be horrified if John was there if, after everything he had done to prevent John from learning of his plan, he was standing in his hospital room. He wasn’t family, he wasn’t welcome. Not really.

When he had found Sherlock in the cell, and reached out to him, Sherlock had flinched away. He had not wanted John to touch him, and that was a memory John couldn’t get that memory out of his head. Nor could he shake the image of Sherlock’s face – almost unrecognisable from the bruising. No, he would wait out in the corridor until an update came from the doctor. He would advocate for Sherlock’s safety, but he would keep a safe distance. That was what he _should_ do. That was what Sherlock would want. 

______________________________________

Four hours later, John kept watch in an uncomfortable chair in Sherlock’s room, his head in his hands, exhausted and distressed. He kept himself at a safe distance, close to the door, not wanting Sherlock to be aware of his presence.

An hour earlier, Sherlock had being taken to radiology for a postoperative control x-ray of his lower limb fractures and a CT of his chest. The doctor needed to get a better idea of the pneumonia and the rib fractures. The anguish of waiting in just the empty room had been a torture all of its own – obviously not like the torture Sherlock had been through, but unbearable all the same. John had paced the corridors instead, over-caffeinating himself and trying not to yell at the staff. It had been a relief to be allowed, even encouraged by Mycroft, to come back in.

On Sherlock’s return from the scans, matters had been made worse when the sedation regime, which had been enough to keep Sherlock calm and resting in his room, had turned out to be much too light for the strain of being transported around the facility. When they brought him back to his room, Sherlock was spiritedly trying to dislodge the high-flow nasal oxygen cannula which had replaced the respirator after the intubation tube had been removed. He then tried to disconnect everything else and wrench himself out of bed. The staff, and Mycroft had tried to reason with Sherlock, to calm him, hoping that the sedation doses wouldn’t have to be raised again, lest it depress his breathing. John had struggled to stay back. Having to see such a thing while having no official role in Sherlock’s care was difficult for him, and watching Sherlock suffer this much was a fresh agony he wasn’t prepared for. Before Sherlock had left him behind, John would have been confident to be the one standing beside Sherlock’s bed, chastising him. To be the one who could calm him. He had believed they had a good friendship. He had _believed_ Sherlock trusted him. He remembered back to the time when Greg admitted that John knew Sherlock better than anyone, after only a day. And he _thought_ it was true. Until _that_ day… _the_ day. The day when his entire faith in their friendship had been torn out from under him. 

Finally, the medical team had found a dose high enough to calm Sherlock down. Mycroft had left the room at that point, presumably to attend to some work-related thing. It appeared that he could not really take compassionate leave from being the British government.

An hour later, something made Sherlock stir again, which required more adjusting of sedative medications. It was as if he was developing more tolerance to them by the hour. John knew it could be a sign that his strength was returning, but it was going to make his care very complicated and the whole ordeal just made John feel frustrated and completely helpless. Sitting back and watching Sherlock battle, and be so completely unaware of his surroundings, hurt John in new ways he hadn’t expected. The brave and bold consulting detective at his weakest, and completely oblivious to John’s presence. It went against every instinct in him to be this close to Sherlock now. Well actually, when he admitted it to himself, it _was_ his every instinct to _be_ this close to Sherlock, but he knew this wasn’t what Sherlock wanted, so he was trying to be helpful, respecting the detective’s wishes. So he sat, near the door, watching Sherlock breathing, hopeful that he would pull through all of this.

Still, in the back of his mind, Mycroft’s words kept echoing on a loop: _it was very important to Sherlock that you were protected… at all costs. Protected… at all costs?_

Protected… at all costs? What did that even mean? 

“John?” Mycroft said gently, stirring him from his thoughts.

John looked up from his hands to see that Mycroft had appeared in the doorway. Then, John glanced over desperately at Sherlock again. He had been lost in his own thoughts. Was Sherlock still okay? It appeared so. He looked quite peaceful now, resting with his eyes closed.

Without a doubt, Mycroft could see John's eyes were red and his face had been twisted in anguish. “What happened?” 

John let out a sigh, giving his attention back to Mycroft. “They restarted the propofol infusion because he got agitated again, but that depresses his breathing so now, his blood gasses look like shit again. He needs rest, then his lungs could heal, but too much sedation will compromise his breathing too much, and it wasn’t good to start with.”

“He knows you’re here, you know,” Mycroft reassured him.

He seemed to be taking in John’s dishevelled appearance: his hair was a scruffy, greasy mess, probably from running his hands through it in frustration too often. The bags under his eyes were extra puffy. He hadn’t rested a wink since arriving in the country. How could he?

He nodded quietly, his jaw clenching. “I doubt that, with the amount of meds he’s on right now. He just seems so bloody _resistant_ to everything. He needs massive doses just to not leap out of bed.”

“Yes, apparently so,” Mycroft said, moving closer to John. He looked so shattered. “You should stay. The staff are happy for you to be in here, in case there are sedation issues again. You have a calming effect on him.” 

John shook his head slowly from side to side. “I don't think he’ll want me here once he’s allowed to be properly awake,Mycroft. I think we both know that,” he said, levelling Mycroft with his red eyes. 

Mycroft looked at John, surprised by the statement. “John—” 

“It’s okay, Mycroft. I’ve had… plenty of time to come to terms with that. I’m here, to make sure he’s okay, that he gets through this. But I know where I belong. Where he wants me or _doesn’t_ want me.” 

“No, Doctor Watson,” Mycroft tried to reason with him, “that’s not—” 

“No. Please,” John began raising a hand to silence him. “Please don’t placate me with niceties. Have the decency to be honest.” 

Mycroft placed a hand on John’s shoulder, confused. “John—” 

John leapt up from the chair, arms flailing to deflect the touch. “No… no,” he pointed at Mycroft. His legs lost their strength and he stumbled out into the corridor finding his balance by leaning against the opposite wall. _“No,”_ he whispered, pressing the heels of his hands into his eye sockets. “I can’t—” 

Mycroft walked across to stand in front of him. “John, I _assure_ you, the very _last_ thing he wanted was to hurt you, or to be away from you. _The very last thing_.” 

John looked up at Mycroft. Really looked at him. How he wanted that to be true. He saw his own fatigue and worry mirrored in Mycroft’s face. “Well, he has a really twisted way of showing it,” John scoffed. 

“Well,” Mycroft gave a twisted smile, “it’s Sherlock. You know how he is.” 

“I used to think I did,” John replied sadly. 

“John, you need to be there when they start tapering off the medications again. Without a familiar face he’ll undoubtedly be… distraught.”

“He’s got you, doesn’t he?” John shook his head. “No. I can’t,” his frustration and anger building suddenly. But his feet carried him slowly back to the doorway of Sherlock’s room just the same. 

“Sherlock will want to know where you are, when he comes out of it again,” Mycroft said gently to him from behind. “He will need to see you.” 

John took in the sight of Sherlock. His face was a sea of purple, red and black, swollen and misshapen and almost impossible to recognise. His beautiful curls plastered to his head, with a mixture of sweat and dirt and blood. _He would be completely miffed to know his hair looks this bad_ , John thought to himself, a smile briefly crossing his face before dropping again.

Sherlock’s left hand and wrist were bandaged up, his left leg in a cast from his foot to above his knee, his right ankle in another but shorter. Underneath the blanket, bruises in all colours of the rainbow were splayed across his chest. Normally, the sight of his partially bare chest, his beautiful skin, would send John’s pulse into overdrive, but not this time. This time it made him enraged. He knew Sherlock’s back was also sliced open from whippings and had been dressed. It must hurt him to be lying on that; every few hours, the staff turned him to the side to help keep his lungs open, to keep pressure off the welts, and to tend to the wounds on his back when necessary. Almost every part of his body was covered in some sort of bruise or cut, and it burned through John to see Sherlock laid out this way.

His breathing began to race, the anger coursing through him as he took in what was left of his detective, of this man he had cared so deeply for, mourned for. This was worse than seeing him laid out on the pavement below Barts, because this was Sherlock, slowly, methodically beaten and broken beyond recognition. Alive, at least, but feeling every painful moment of it. When Sherlock had jumped to his death, John had tried to square it with himself that he had gone quickly, that he hadn’t suffered. That the suffering was all in the hands of those he left behind. But now, Sherlock was going to hurt for months as he recovered from this, perhaps even for years as he overcame it mentally.

John clenched his fists. “No. He doesn’t need that. He needs… _I_ need to do something more than just sit here and wait,” John said through clenched teeth, his breaths sharp through his nostrils. 

“There’s nothing else you can do,” Mycroft said, putting a hand on John’s shoulder. 

“Yes. There is. There is, Mycroft,” John said, turning around to face him. “Is your team still here? Standing by?” 

“The t—? John, no.” Mycroft straightened, realising what he was asking. “John, you can’t.” 

“Watch me. If we want this to be over, for this to be worth anything, we need to finish it.” John stood tall; his purpose suddenly clear. “I am _going_ to finish this,” he said firmly. 

“Don’t be ridiculous, John. The last thing we need is to have to rescue you as well. I won’t have both of you holed up in a hospital.” 

“Oh, I won’t be in the hospital. I will finish this even if it kills me. They are going to pay for what they have done. Or I’ll die trying.” 

“Sherlock would never forgive me if I let you go and do that.” 

“I think we both know that’s not true. You’re going to stay here and keep him alive, by listening to the doctors, for heaven’s sake. Let me do this. For Sherlock.” 

Mycroft could see there was no reasoning with John, and he nodded silently to John in agreement. “The car is downstairs. It will take you to the team. Lieutenant Abrahams will get you whatever you need. And John? Keep me updated.” 

John stood to attention and gave Mycroft one militaristic nod before turning back to look at Sherlock one last time, holding the door frame to steady himself. The memory of this sight would be enough to fuel him to do what had to be done and he would not stop until it was finished. With that, he walked out of the hospital, the fury pushing him forwards. 


	7. Revenge

John had been running on empty for nearly three weeks now, completely fuelled by rage and adrenaline. For the first time, he was starting to understand how Sherlock used to case-run without eating or sleeping. He couldn’t rest until he knew he had every last one of these bastards. The files that Mycroft and Sherlock had compiled had been comprehensive and he had managed to work through three separate compounds across Europe. He had not stopped to rest, bandaging any injuries on the fly. Unstoppable, he had taken down each person with no mercy. His military training came flooding back very quickly, despite the time away from service. The force, the aggression he used on each of these low-lifes, had been satisfying. The image of Sherlock in a hospital bed was his stimulant, the only motivation he needed. He felt no remorse as he broke bones, beat faces and even shot people. No remorse. 

The last three weeks had become a blur of violence and wrath. As body after body was added to the headcount, John felt – hoped – that Sherlock’s injuries were healing, that he was surviving. As if each body accounted for each of Sherlock’s injuries, John hoped each person he took out, equated to Sherlock inching closer to recovery. Mycroft had been right; he _had_ missed the war. He had missed the action, the violence even. The snap someone’s bone made as you broke their leg. The crunch their nose made as it broke under the weight of a fist. And each bruise he endured in battle distracted him from the thoughts in his mind: the doubts; the anger at the lies; the rage at the deception that Sherlock had set in motion. John didn’t believe for a second that it had been for his protection; Mycroft had clearly been manipulating him. Sherlock had never shown that much of a protective side. On their many cases, there had been risky moments and he knew they had each other’s backs. But to die, or pretend to die, and lie about it in order to protect John? It was ridiculous, a preposterous notion. He couldn’t even work out why someone would do that. These people he was taking down, they were vile humans, that was clear. And if he was given no other choice to rid the world of them, perhaps he would do what Sherlock had done. But he knew he would have wanted Sherlock to be in on the plan, to be with him through the battle. It was insanity for Sherlock to have tried to do all of it alone. 

And what kind of a life would he now have after this? After he was done? Would he return to London and pretend he didn’t know Sherlock was alive? Could he even do that? After everything he had now done here? 

He had crossed Europe, and this was, he believed, the last known den. They had found themselves in Garmisch-Partenkirchen, outside of Munich, for this last part of the mission. Thankfully, it had been warmer here than some of the other locations. Finding the smallest, most hidden cave amongst the Partnachklamm, without drawing attention to themselves, had been a challenge, but they had managed it. The team sat in wait, until the tourists and locals had left the area. As the light began to drop at the end of the day, for the first time in a week, John had even managed to find enough phone reception to send Mycroft an update.

The reply back had been short: 

**[Read: 9:04pm] Well enough to move him. Returning to LDN. Need you ASAP. M**

John sighed with both relief and trepidation. God, he hoped Mycroft was still listening to medical advice and that he was telling the truth. He deleted the message – as was their agreement – and huddled behind the rocks, gun in hand, watching the opening to the cave with heavy focus. 

“On my signal,” he whispered firmly into his coms, giving a hand gesture as well. The team, hidden further back, responded in confirmation.

John waited for a breath – just long enough to close his eyes and picture Sherlock’s beaten body one more time. Then, he dropped his hand and ran into the cave, the team following close on his heel. 

Gunshots and shouting echoed across the rock walls, as John led the way, attacking every last person he could find. He was ready for this last battle. For Sherlock. 

______________________________________

Sherlock awoke with a start, troubled and damp from sweat. His dreams had been filled with what he thought must be John rescuing him from the dungeon. He had always loved it when John strutted his military prowess and took the lead – somewhat of a fantasy he had enjoyed more than once in his dreams, in fact. This latest dream was more troubling, however, some of it more likely memories pieced together from the extraction. Yet some were clearly something else. While his imaginary John was still keeping him company in the hospital room, sitting on his bed and talking with him to keep him calm, there was still a part of his mind that understood this John was not real. There were always elements to his visions that made him feel certain this was not _his_ John. Not really. Was it the look in his eye? Something about his clothes? His smell? It had been so long since he had seen his real John to even work out what it was. He couldn’t place it; he just knew. 

The John in his dreams wasn’t just a beguiling, domineering military John. He was angry, furious, violent and seeking revenge. Surely, Mycroft hadn’t really brought John here? Surely, John wouldn’t go after the network in his stead? John had to be back in Baker Street, safely living his life, having moved on from Sherlock’s apparent death. Sherlock had plotted his return so many times, so many ways as he travelled Europe dismantling the gangs one by one. He hadn’t yet settled on the best way to re-appear, but it was the only thing keeping him going through it all – the thought of being able to return to John and bring him up to speed, so they could return to normal. He thought he had heard John at the hospital at one point, but his bouts of consciousness had initially been so short and fuzzy. As he had improved, his sedation regime lightened, he had realised that he must have been mistaken. Of course John wasn’t here. Mycroft would respect his wishes on that. His brother could be a dick at the best of times, but he never joked where John was concerned. Not when it really counted. He understood how important John was to Sherlock. No, the few times he had really been more lucid recently, he had only seen Mycroft, or the medical staff.

If John had really been here, he would have been waiting in the room, by the bed, or demanding answers from the medical staff. Sherlock smiled to himself at the thought. John would make for a formidable next of kin in a situation like this. He was actually a little disappointed that his brother had been so faithful to his wishes now.

He closed his eyes again and tried to conjure images of that fantasy in his mind for a moment. Maybe it would distract him from the pain that was starting to build again. They had been keeping him dosed on the good stuff, and he hated the moment when it started to wear off and he had to resort to asking for another dose. He never thought Mycroft would allow opioids, given his addiction history. Mycroft relenting to it must mean that Sherlock had been rescued in even worse shape than he thought.

In fact, one look at Mycroft sitting by the bed had been enough to confirm this once Sherlock was alert enough to have his wits about him. His brother never went anywhere without full grooming. The unkempt, slightly stubbly and pale man beside his bed had surprised him. Mycroft hadn’t looked that way since the time during his university years when he had to be rescued from a particularly awful drug den and Mycroft had personally undertaken his detox with the help of a hired private sector physician. They had never spoken about it again, but Sherlock had never seen his brother look like that again either, until now. Out of respect for what Mycroft must have had to undergo to extract him from that dungeon, Sherlock had kept a respectful silence. Not that he could have talked if he had wanted to, until recently. The tube down his throat had been particularly unpleasant. 

His latest series of nightmares had shaken him a little bit more than usual. They were particularly realistic, and his heartrate was pounding in his chest with fear. 

_“John?_ ” Sherlock tried to say, but his throat was dry and nothing but a squeak came out. 

“Sherlock?” Mycroft checked, suddenly by his bed, a hand on Sherlock’s arm, his eyes glancing up at the monitor, watching his heartrate climbing. “Are you all right?” 

“John?” he tried again. 

“You’re in a hospital in Belgrade, brother. John isn’t here,” Mycroft said. Strangely, he didn’t make eye contact as he said it and Sherlock couldn’t work out whether it was guilt, or if he was lying. 

“I saw—” 

“You’re still on an impressive cocktail of medications, Sherlock. I’m sure you’ve seen and heard all manner of things. But don’t worry, you are almost healed enough that we can move you to London, where we will both feel much more comfortable. Although, I’ll admit this is one of the only private hospitals in Serbia and the care has _actually_ been surprisingly excellent. You’ll need to be sedated when we move you again. Still, Mother is eager for you to be brought back to English soil where she can fuss over you properly,” Mycroft said, sitting back down in his chair and crossing his legs. Sherlock rolled his eyes, which hurt his head and he winced.

“But the—” 

“Yes, you needn’t worry. My team has continued your work and they are on the brink of finishing. You can go home safely. I am working on your pardon now, in fact.” 

“And John—” 

“Brother, you need to focus on getting better. We can talk about John when we are back in London. I can assure you, that will be… handled as well. In fact, I have a call I need to make. If you’re really feeling all right, I will excuse myself and continue with my work. You should rest,” he said calmly, standing and patting Sherlock’s thigh gently. 

Sherlock gave a very small nod in acknowledgement but watched Mycroft with eagle eyes. Something was _definitely_ going on. His brother was hiding something.

The thought of returning to London, even in this state, did give him a moment’s pleasant pause. He closed his eyes again, trying to picture some more scenarios for the moment he would return to Baker Street, and to John. 


	8. Home

John pushed the already partially opened door to the flat with his left shoulder, sucking in a sharp breath from the pain, his face squinting for a moment. He was still bruised from the mission. The left shoulder had taken a particularly hard hit when he had been thrown against a rock wall. He dragged his suitcase in behind him and stood just inside the doorway. He never thought he would be back here. 

“Stop fussing, for heaven’s sake! I don’t know why all this is necessary, honestly!” 

Sherlock’s angry voice, coming from the bedroom, made John smile briefly, but it was a smile which didn’t quite reach his eyes. He was too busy taking in the room – this familiar room that he had avoided for so long, the memories too painful for his brain to fully process. And yet, here he was again, looking at their chairs, still sitting opposite each other, hearing Sherlock’s tantrum from down the hallway, as if no time had passed. _As if nothing had happened._ He couldn’t move, frozen to the spot. 

“Oh, you’re going to be a regular bag of charms, aren’t you?” Mycroft goaded. 

“Oh, shut up Mycroft!” Sherlock yelled back. 

It was a weak retort by Sherlock’s standards. _Clearly time for his pain meds to be topped up,_ John thought to himself. He had to admit, he had really missed hearing the brothers at each other like that. He stood there a little longer, clenching and unclenching his fists. He was nervous, to be honest. Nervous to be back, nervous to see how Sherlock was going to receive his being here. God help him, he wasn’t sure it was the right decision to have come. But how could he not? 

“It’s a shame they had to take that tube out of your throat,” Mycroft poked. “It was so much more peaceful when you couldn’t speak your mind.” 

“When are you leaving, then – if it’s so difficult for you?” Sherlock asked defiantly and too loudly. 

“As soon as I know you’re all settled here, and everything is in place. Don’t worry, I have no desire to butt heads with you for hours on end. I’ve found someone _much_ better qualified,” Mycroft answered smugly. The accompanying smirk broadened as John made a perfectly timed entrance into Sherlock’s room, to punctuate his point. John took in the mess of machines and cables still attached to Sherlock. He was still too thin, too pale, too bruised. But definitely alert.

Sherlock looked John up and down, mouth slightly agape before glancing back at his brother and then looking back at John. John stared at the ground uncomfortably, unable to handle Sherlock’s beaten face, nor his scrutiny. 

“Perfect,” Sherlock said under his breath, closing his eyes. 

John didn’t know what he had expected. Sherlock certainly couldn’t leap out of bed and hug him, and they’d never been huggers at the best of times, anyway. Perhaps he had hoped Sherlock would be happier about his appearance at Baker Street, at being here to help care for him. A part of him had hoped, that despite his own anxieties of Sherlock not wanting him around, that maybe he had been wrong. He _longed_ to be corrected, but Sherlock seemed to have little more to say.

The awkward silence that ensued between the three of them was almost unbearable, although John was unable to think of anything to say at this point to change that. It certainly wasn’t like Sherlock to be so tongue-tied.

“Right,” Mycroft finally asserted, “well then _Doctor_ Watson, I will leave my brother in your excellent care. I have the nurse coming back in an hour or so to assist you as needed. He is due for another dose of pain meds—” 

“Yeah I gathered that already from his dazzling personality,” John interrupted with sass, shifting uncomfortably on his feet, still not making eye contact with the patient. 

Sherlock looked at John with shocked betrayal before letting out a huff of air. “Perfect,” he repeated, looking to his brother. 

Mycroft smirked again. “As much as I’d like to stay, and see how _this_ unfolds, I have some business to attend to. Keep me updated, John. I will stop by again later this evening. You’ll find your room has been cleaned and made up already. The fridge has also been cleaned _thoroughly_ and stocked. All the instructions are on the kitchen table for you.” 

“Ta,” John said politely. 

“Sherlock, play _nice_ ,” Mycroft said, with warning, as he left the room.

John couldn’t help the light laugh that came out, but once Mycroft had left the room, his smile dropped and the two of them were left in silence again. A thick silence that filled the room, swallowing up every thought John tried to form. The only sound was the faint hum from the monitors surrounding Sherlock’s bed and the faint hiss from the regular oxygen cannula in his nostrils. 

“John, I—” 

“I should get you those pain meds,” John interrupted quickly, with a loud clear of his throat, before Sherlock could talk about anything uncomfortable. “I’m sure the trip here was uncomfortable and you’re ready for some more rest.”

He cleared his throat again, and walked back out to the kitchen, without looking at Sherlock. Mycroft had indeed left the meds and the instructions on the table, neatly ordered. Paracetamol, a non-steroidal anti-inflammatory. There was still an opioid in use, but it was a skin patch which slowly released a steady, low dose of buprenorphine for a week. Long-acting formulations were better than short-acting ones for former addicts since they gave less of an up-and-down effect profile. There were quick-acting buprenorphine tablets in a locked safe in John's old room as a last resort for really bad moments, but Sherlock wasn't to know that.

John let out a loud gush of air and steadied himself on the table edge with both hands, trying to stop his head spinning, which was far from clear. So many memories, so much baggage, so much history that he had put to the side and not dealt with. And now here he was, back at Baker Street, with Sherlock Holmes. How was this real? How was this happening? 

He squared his shoulders, grabbed the bottle of pills and a glass of water. 

“Into battle, Watson,” he said to himself quietly, before walking back into Sherlock’s room. 

______________________________________

Sherlock closed his eyes and sank back into his pillow after John walked out. As he breathed, he took a moment to appreciate the smells of home. It was the first instance of quiet he had been able to enjoy after the chaos of being moved in. After the hospital in Belgrade, he’d been flown back in a private plane which could accommodate all of the monitoring equipment, the infuser pumps and supplemental oxygen. There had been a short stint in a hospital in London which included an operation to debride the wounds on his back and another to put in a better plate for his ankle fracture. Now, he was relieved beyond measure to be allowed home to recover.

It hadn’t occurred to him that Mycroft would tell John everything and invite him back to be the carer. Having Mycroft and a parade of hired nurses fussing over him had been painful enough. How was he going to face John? How could he expect John to do this? Mycroft had only just told him yesterday, that John had not been living in Baker Street this whole time, during his absence. It had admittedly been a blow to the chest – almost more painful than his broken ribs. He had only just wrapped his head around that fact, around the absence of John, when in he had strolled to Sherlock’s room as if it was a regular Tuesday. As if it was perfectly normal. As if Sherlock hadn’t lied to him in the worst possible way. Naturally, the fact that he couldn’t make eye contact or bear to be in the same room with Sherlock for long was a clear indication that he was covering up just how very far from usual this all was. He hadn’t covered his conflicted anguish very well. _Does Mycroft really think this is a good idea?_

Sherlock heard John let out a loud sigh from the kitchen, and his heart sank with guilt. John didn’t want to be here, that was clear enough. And Sherlock certainly didn’t want John, after everything he had been through, to also be responsible for his recovery now. He didn’t deserve to have to carry that burden on top of the old wounds from their forced separation. Sherlock would have a lot to make up for, without adding this to his side of the ledger. But he didn’t want to say as much to Mycroft with John standing there, so he had stayed silent. It didn’t help that Sherlock was feeling particularly prickly already – what with the pain and the frustration of having to just lie here, useless. His mind was in a bad place to begin with. He realised he would have to try to temper his behaviour a bit if he was going to get through this and have any hope of making amends with John. 

“Right. Here you go,” John said brightly, as he walked into the room with an attempt at renewed courage.

Sherlock could see through it. “John, can I just—” 

John let out a sigh, the façade dropping. “Look, Sherlock, let’s just focus on one problem at a time, shall we? I mean, I know it’s not ideal, being stuck with me like this. But until your pardon comes through and Mycroft has had time to verify that the network has been fully dismantled, we can’t have just _anyone_ here seeing you, alive, in your current weakened state. It’s too risky. So, I’m here. Let’s just get through this.” He passed Sherlock the glass and two pills with a smile of forced civility. Sherlock knew that smile. It was his polite professional smile and it rubbed Sherlock the wrong way immediately. John had never used that smile on _him_ unless they were in front of a client, never in private. 

“No, I didn’t mean—” Sherlock began to correct.

“Just take the pills and get some rest, all right?” John said more forcefully, and annoyed. 

Sherlock looked at John, trying to decide what he should try next, but he was lost. So he swallowed the pills and passed the glass back to John, his chin jutting out stubbornly. “Fine,” he said. But that wasn’t what he had wanted to say. Why couldn’t he think straight and say the right thing? 

John paused for a moment, taking Sherlock in, before nodding. “Thank you. I’ll just go and sort my things out. Then I’ll be out in the lounge if you need anything. The best thing for you to do now is get some sleep.” He didn’t wait for Sherlock’s response before walking out. 

Sherlock closed his eyes and settled back into his pillow, his brow creasing from the pain of his back as it rubbed against the sheets. He took in a few deep breaths and tried to settle his mind. John had changed. Not only was he angry, he was acting coldly. He didn’t want to be here at all, not one bit; Sherlock could read that all over his former friend. He had known John would be angry, that he might demand answers. But this was beyond hate. It was as though Sherlock had been amputated from John altogether. Like he was a complete stranger. That hurt more than Sherlock had expected. He had been prepared for a fight, for angry words, for John to need a full recount of the last two years. This, whatever this was, felt far worse than even Sherlock had been prepared for. He lay there, waiting for the meds to start helping him drift into sleep. He knew the pain in his chest was nothing to do with his injuries. 


	9. Advancement

John was settled into his old chair, to read a book. He had been up to unpack his things in his room, as if he’d only been away on a vacation. Initially, he had found himself sitting on the bed and resisting the urge to cry or scream for the first few minutes, breathing heavily to calm down and stop the swell of emotions. He was an expert at that. But now, after settling himself in the lounge and for the first time in almost two years, he felt surprisingly at peace. All this time, he had been trying so hard to wrestle with emotions and deal with what had happened, and he had really started to believe he would never be able to let it all go. He had thought leaving Baker Street was the best thing to help him move on. But now, sitting here like this, it felt so right; he finally felt like he was home. This was where he belonged. Sherlock was alive, the network had been dismantled. Soon, Sherlock would be exonerated, and they would be able to go out in public. _Maybe even solve cases together again?_ He had spent two years longing for it all to have been a lie, a magic trick. He’d hoped that Sherlock would one day reappear, with that reckless grin on his face, shouting: ‘surprise!’ and they would both laugh and embrace. And just like that, all would be well. 

Of course, the reality of the situation was not so simple. Even as he sat here reading, pretending to himself that things were back to normal, John knew he was fooling himself. For a brief moment, he believed it to be true – he _wanted_ to believe it so badly. But instead, their friendship, which had been so important to his survival, had been torn apart, ripped from him in a matter of minutes, over a short phone call and an even shorter fall from grace. That, in and of itself, had been painful. The guilt he felt over not being able to help Sherlock in that moment, to stop him, was insurmountable. It had taken over his identity in the last two years. He had pushed everyone else who knew Sherlock away, far away. Finding out that he had upended his life for nothing at all, for just a lie, had rocked his very foundation _again_. He hadn’t had time yet to sit still and just process what had happened. At his worst, it crushed him to recall how the whole thing had been a complete fabrication, a ruse, and that he had been at the butt of the joke. He had believed so much in Sherlock Holmes, that he hadn’t seen it for what it was, and that was worse than all the rest of the pain. 

The doctor in him needed to turn his emotions off, flick that switch, and focus on Sherlock first. Sherlock was in no state to bear the brunt of John’s anger right now. He needed care and attention, and time to rest and heal. John knew he could keep his emotions out of it; doctors were well trained in that skill. He would treat Sherlock like a patient, _just_ a patient – that was how he would get through this. At least he hoped he could manage it. And then, although it felt right for him to be here at Baker Street again, he would pack his things and go back to life without Sherlock. Turns out he was good at that, too. It was a meaningless, empty existence, but it had become his home for the last two years. He would return there and leave Sherlock alone. That was clearly how Sherlock wanted it. How John was going to extract himself from Baker Street was something he would worry about later – in a month or so, he expected – when Sherlock was able to look after himself. 

The fireplace was going, in an attempt to help warm the flat against the evening chill, so that Sherlock could rest properly. John took a sip of scotch from his glass on the side table and returned to reading his book. Even from the lounge, he could hear the machines and Sherlock’s still laboured breathing. He tried to shut the sounds out and fall into the pages of his book, to escape the worry he couldn’t shift. His eyes struggled to read the words on his page and he realised they were filled with tears, distorting his vision. He was going to have to try harder if he was to get through this. 

______________________________________

“No, John!” Sherlock yelled out in fear, trying to sit up, but his ribs reminded him very quickly that he couldn’t. It was a rude awakening, to realise once again where he really was. He tried to steady his breathing, every inhale stabbing him sharply, as he tried to bring his mind back to the present. The reality that he couldn’t even stand up and pace the room to shake off the adrenaline coursing through him after that nightmare, was a waking hell in its own right. 

“Sherlock?” John came running into the room, his voice concerned and… scared even?

Sherlock tried to relax back into the pillow, closing his eyes, embarrassed. “I’m fine, John,” he rasped, trying to will the sense of suffocation from lack of oxygen away. 

“Jesus, you scared the life out of me,” John released the tension in his shoulders, slumping a bit and falling back into the chair near the bed. 

Mycroft had obviously placed it there, thinking John would dutifully sit beside Sherlock’s bed, keeping him company. But that had not happened. _Wishful thinking, brother,_ Sherlock thought to himself, painfully.

In the last two days, John had barely spent any time in the room, except to check the monitors, check his urine output (and curse to himself about it since, apparently, it often wasn’t up to his standards), administer medication or bring food. Sherlock was able to mostly feed himself even with the wrist fracture and had been stubborn about wanting to do so. It meant he wasn’t eating enough though, which clearly worried and annoyed John. Perhaps for the sake of their civilities, John hadn’t argued about it yet. 

“You sure you’re okay?” John asked again, clearly concerned still. 

“Yes, quite sure. Just a bad dream,” Sherlock said, his voice shaking more than he wanted it to. 

“Oh. Right,” John replied, rubbing his hand over his face in relief. “Do you need to… to talk about it?” he asked tentatively. 

Sherlock looked over at John as if he had grown two heads. 

“Well, ah… that is to say… if it would help. I know a thing or two about bad dreams,” John offered awkwardly. 

“Yes of course,” Sherlock dismissed. _Probably from war but also from seeing me jump off a building,_ Sherlock thought to himself guiltily. “It’s fine, really,” he said.

John sat quietly but didn’t move.

The silence stretched long enough that Sherlock felt confident to elaborate, eager to keep John nearby. “It’s just that… since my capture… I’ve had trouble figuring out…” 

John looked up at him, curious and open to listening.

Sherlock felt his chest start to pound with excitement. This was already the longest conversation they had had in two years. _Don’t ruin this,_ he told himself. He adjusted his position in bed, so that he could look over at John better. This made him scrunch his face at the pain of moving. John instinctively started to get up from the chair to help but Sherlock gestured that he was fine, so John settled back again. Even after two years they knew each other’s signals and could communicate without words. Sherlock had missed it so much.

“Okay?” John checked. Sherlock nodded quietly. “You’ve had trouble…?” John prompted him to continue. 

“Yes. I’ve had trouble working out what is real and what isn’t, I suppose,” Sherlock said quietly. “When I was in that cell, I…” his voice drifted off as he checked John’s face for signs of disinterest, but John was listening intently. Sherlock’s eyes dropped, the guilt flooding in. He couldn’t say this while making eye contact with John. “I imagined you were there. With me.” 

“You what?” John asked, confused. Clearly he had not expected to hear such a thing. 

“I had an imaginary John that stood in the cell with me, and kept me company,” Sherlock replied in a rush. 

“Well, we know _that_ wasn’t real. I was a million miles away, thinking you were dead. Remember?” John said. He closed his eyes and let out a breath, as though regretting snapping like that. 

“Right,” Sherlock looked at John with the best attempt at sympathy and apology he could muster under his bruises. “But the longer I was in there, the blurrier the lines became. In the beginning I knew it was just something my mind had conjured up to keep me sane, ironically. But the more pain I endured, the more delirious I became, and it felt _so real_. I even imagined you were there at the extraction, rescuing me,” Sherlock let out with a laugh, before the pain stopped him suddenly. 

John said nothing. He was watching closely. Sherlock could see his mind working. 

“And I keep having dreams about it. That you are in danger. That you took my place and fought to take the network down and rescue me. It’s silly, I know. I think I’m just projecting… you know… the guilt that I didn’t take you with me.” 

John still didn’t say anything. Sherlock started to feel uncomfortable. _Should I keep talking? Does John even want to hear all of this?_

“Would it help if you could see the report? From that day? From the rescue?” John asked, calmly. 

“You have it? The report?” Sherlock asked, suddenly perking up. _Why would John have that?_

“Yes, it’s here. Mycroft left it for you to read, when you felt up to it,” John said, getting up from the chair. 

“Ah, yes. Very much. I would like to see that _very_ much,” Sherlock felt relieved. 

“Right,” John left the room and took a few steps down the corridor before leaning against the wall. 


	10. Extraction

John sat with his elbows resting forward on his knees, his head resting on his fingers. His index fingers were moving back and forth across his lips, not unlike the postures Sherlock often made when thinking.

He was nervous. Sherlock had flicked through a few pages of the file, looking at the photos, silently. He was taking his time, meticulously cataloguing details and storing them in his mind palace, but the suspense was killing John. What would Sherlock say when he found out John really _was_ there at the extraction? Would he be angry? Would it upset him that John had finished the job he had expected to do? Would he ask John to leave when he found out? 

John briefly smiled to himself, but that smile was tightened to a line with tension. Just being able to sit in the room with Sherlock had been so nice. They hadn’t talked, _really_ talked like that in so long. He had forgotten how much he missed just _talking_ to this man, about anything and everything. _Don’t get attached,_ he reminded himself. _God, I’m starting to sound like Mycroft,_ he added.

Perhaps he had now given Sherlock enough time to try to glean the truth from those files. _We need to talk some more_. John rose to his feet and made his way back to the bedroom.

Earlier, he had helped prop Sherlock up higher on the pillows into a half sitting position but could now see it was hurting him. He could also tell Sherlock was struggling to focus.

“Can I help?” he finally asked.

Sherlock hesitated for a moment, unsure.

“You just look uncomfortable,” John continued in explanation. “Maybe it’s too much for you?” 

“I… well yes, it’s not as comfortable as I was hoping,” Sherlock admitted, apologetically. 

John wondered if he was truly just referring to the pillows. “Want me to help lie you back down?” John offered. 

“Could you?” Sherlock was being more polite than usual. 

“That’s why I’m here, Sherlock. Whatever you need.” John hoped that Sherlock would read in his tone that he really meant that.

To his relief, Sherlock nodded. 

John came forward and kneeled on the mattress, leaning across the bed as Sherlock sat up a bit straighter, to allow John access to the pillows. He cursed himself for leaning across the bed, instead of walking around to the other side where it would have been easier for him. Now, he would have to favour his left shoulder which was still recovering, and he didn’t want Sherlock to notice. 

“Hmmm we’ll need to change those dressings on your back soon too,” John said more to himself, which made Sherlock scrunch his face up. Neither of them was looking forward to that. “Right. How’s that?” John asked with his professional bedside-manner-voice. 

“Fine, thank you,” Sherlock answered politely, looking up at John. He was so close, leaning over like that, it made Sherlock blush without intending to, the reflex catching him off guard. John didn’t notice, busy grimacing from his own pain. 

“Are _you_ okay?” Sherlock asked, suddenly worried. 

John opened his eyes, realising what he’d done. “Me? Oh, yes sorry, fine. Just a bit of a stiff shoulder,” he brushed off casually. It was throbbing intensely, now, and he couldn't help grimacing.

Sherlock reached out without thinking and touched it

Instinctively, John flinched away from it, hissing in a breath.

“Sorry,” Sherlock said quickly, sounding guilty. “I didn’t mean to—” 

“It’s okay,” John leapt in to reassure him. “Just… it’s okay,” he decided on, and gave Sherlock a nod, settling his weight onto the mattress beside Sherlock for a moment. They let the silence sit there uncomfortably with them. 

“Would you… could you read the report _to_ me?” Sherlock asked finally. 

“Do you want me to?” John asked. 

“Yes, I think… it’s too hard for me to focus, and I’d like to close my eyes for a bit, but maybe if you read it to me…” he offered. 

“Sure, okay,” John grabbed the folder off Sherlock’s legs, shuffling the papers back into some semblance of order while shifting his weight to move off the bed to the chair. 

“No—” Sherlock said quickly, putting a hand on John’s back, avoiding the shoulder this time but still catching John by surprise. “Would you… stay here? Beside me?” he asked, and his voice had dropped to the gentlest version John had ever heard – like a child after a nightmare, wanting their parent to protect them from the monster under the bed.

John’s heart squeezed tighter in that moment. Sherlock was more vulnerable than he had realised and that was why he was acting nicer than he had expected. This didn't seem like someone who didn’t want John there. 

“Sure,” he agreed readily, relaxing his weight back down and settling himself next to Sherlock, moving some of the excess pillows to prop his back against the bedhead. He leaned closer to the lamp, to be able to read the print better.

Sherlock relaxed into his pillows too, with a satisfied smile, resting his hands on his stomach and not saying a word. 

John had never, in all their time living together, been allowed to spend much – if any – time in Sherlock’s bedroom, let alone to sit _beside_ him on his bed. It felt strange, and wonderful at the same time. He remembered a time his mother had given him a cheeky sip of her champagne one New Year’s Eve when he was in primary school. It felt like that – like a naughty secret. He was sitting in Sherlock’s bed! Sherlock had _asked_ him to be there. He couldn’t wrap his head around that. Given Sherlock’s many signals that seemed to confirm for John that he was an inconvenience, this was a strange turn of events. In any case, Sherlock was clearly flustered after a nightmare, and on copious amounts of medication. His cheeks had even looked a bit flushed earlier, but John was tempted to brush it off as the result of anything but his proximity. _One shouldn’t get excited about anything the genius detective has to say in this state_ , he thought to himself. 

The longer John read the report, the more confounded Sherlock’s expression became.

“Wait,” Sherlock interrupted finally, his eyes still closed. 

“Yes?” John asked, looking up from the papers. 

“Who took the lead? For the extraction?” Sherlock checked. 

“I told you, Lieutenant Abrahams was the commanding officer,” John said, flipping back a page to check what was written there and trying to remember what he had said aloud. 

“Where was my brother in all this?” Sherlock asked, opening his eyes and looking to John. 

“He was… well he’s not in the report. I don’t know really… but I expect he was…” 

“You’re lying,” Sherlock said, suddenly taking more interest in John. 

“No… what?” John realised his reaction was off. 

“You’re not reading everything out,” Sherlock said, twisting his head now, likely to study John’s expressions more carefully. 

“Look, Sherlock, don’t start trying to _deduce_ things,” John said frustrated. “You already read the report. You don’t need me to read it out to you. What would I know about it, anyway? I think that maybe… maybe you need more rest. We can do this another time,” John added as he started to move off the bed. 

“Don’t be ridiculous, John. It was a simple question. You don’t need to leave. There are holes in that report. If you _are_ reading what’s there, things have been left out – at least from what I remember… or… you’re not reading me everything. Simple. Which is it?” 

John stepped down onto the floor, his spine straightening at the implication, despite knowing that of course Sherlock was right. He kept his back to Sherlock, unable face him. “What could _you_ possibly remember? You admitted you were half out of your tree, talking to an imaginary friend in that dungeon!” he deflected, louder than he meant to. 

Sherlock stopped and really looked at John’s posture. “You _have_ left something out,” he acknowledged. “Haven’t you? I was right.” 

John turned awkwardly on the spot, his mouth opening and closing a couple of times, trying to work out what to say. 

“You were _there_ ,” Sherlock suddenly said with clarity.

John knew instantly that he couldn’t deny it fast enough. The blush on his cheeks was all Sherlock needed to see.

“You? _You_ were there?” Sherlock interrogated incredulously. “You _were_ the one who came into my cell and… and carried me out?” Sherlock asked, suddenly feeling hot and confused. “That was real?” 

John didn’t know what to say. Should he admit it? Or should he keep denying it? He sat down on the edge of the bed, putting the folder beside him on the blanket. “Yes,” he finally admitted quietly. 

“How?” Sherlock asked. 

“They sent me a video… of you. You looked so... broken... but you were alive. I went straight to Mycroft and demanded he bring me in on it.” 

“Were you at the hospital as well?!” Sherlock was genuinely surprised. 

“For a bit, yes,” John nodded, looking at his lap. 

“But I never saw you… I don’t think,” Sherlock felt confused.   
  
“You were heavily sedated. But I couldn’t… I couldn’t watch you… like _that_. So, I took Mycroft’s team and we… finished the job,” John said nervously. 

“Are you SERIOUS?!” Sherlock was suddenly very angry. The yelling hurt his ribs, but he couldn’t stop now. “What were you thinking John?! After everything I put in place to prevent you from getting in harms’ way?!” 

John stood up suddenly, turning around to face Sherlock. “I was thinking that my _best friend_ , the man who I thought had _died,_ was alive! Just barely, mind you. And _someone_ had to pay for all of that shit! All of _this!_ ” he yelled, gesturing at Sherlock, physically a mere shadow of the friend he had longed to see again for almost two years. And mentally… the jury was out. It had to do things to a person, to be imprisoned like that for such a long time. 

“I did all that to keep _you_ as far from _them_ as possible! And you walked right in there like some… some bloody mercenary?! What am I supposed to say to that?!” Sherlock was furious. 

“You could say thank you,” John said coldly. “But I wouldn’t want you to hurt yourself,” he let out, instantly regretting it. The silence that followed was a clear indication that his taunt had hit hard.

“Right. And my brother let you do all of that, did he?” Sherlock spat. 

“I didn’t give him a choice,” John replied stubbornly. 

“Your shoulder?” Sherlock asked, realising the connection now. 

“Rock wall in a cave had a disagreement with me,” John said obstinately, crossing his arms in a show of defiance. 

Sherlock huffed in annoyance. 

“Look, I know you want well rid of me. I got that message loud and clear at Barts.” 

Sherlock didn’t respond to that.

“But I wasn’t going to let you _die_ in some cell in eastern Europe. _Once_ was enough for me. I helped get you out and I’m glad I did. I would do it again in a heartbeat, to make sure you were safe. The network is dealt with. I mean, you were in no state to handle them anymore, were you? So that’s done. I’m just here until you get back on your feet. And then I’ll be out of your hair again, just like you so obviously wanted. So don’t worry,” John said as he stormed out of the room, leaving Sherlock in shock. 


	11. Paroxysm

“Oh good. You’re awake,” Mycroft said from the chair as Sherlock’s eyes fluttered open. He sighed heavily at the sight of his brother. _Not the best way to wake up._

“I don’t want to speak to _you_ right now,” Sherlock said stubbornly. 

“Funny. John seemed to think the opposite – that I might need to come and smooth over a few things.” 

“John called you?”  
  
“That’s his job,” Mycroft condescended. 

“So, he answers to you now?” Sherlock was annoyed by the very idea. 

“Well he’s under the impression that _you_ don’t like him very much. So, I’ve taken him under my wing until you get your head out of your backside, yes.” 

“Excuse me?” Sherlock asked, trying to prop himself up on his elbows but surrendering back down on the pillow in frustration and pain. 

“You heard me,” Mycroft retorted.   
  
“Why would he think I don’t—” 

“You really aren’t good at this are you?” Mycroft wouldn’t let up, but Sherlock didn’t answer. “John thought you were dead for _two years_. You let him see you fall, and you left him to believe it was suicide. Sentiment isn’t my area, as you know, but I think we can both agree that it is John’s _entire_ area,” Mycroft said with distaste. 

“He doesn’t seem very sentimental at the moment,” Sherlock huffed. 

“Really? Sherlock, you’ve lost your touch since Serbia. I think it’s obvious that he’s being far _too_ sentimental, in fact,” Mycroft retorted. 

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Sherlock fobbed off the thought. 

“Me? You’re the one who has had all of this alone time with him, and yet you’re barely on speaking terms with the man. Make some deductions of your own.” Mycroft was really in fine form today. 

“What am I supposed to do? Have some inane heart-to-heart? Brother, that’s not my style,” Sherlock said with disdain. 

“You’re going to need to do _something_. He’s upstairs, packing his things. The nurse is on her way to stay while I find another doctor,” Mycroft said with some sort of satisfaction. Sherlock had clearly failed, as he had predicted. 

“What?!” Sherlock tried to sit up, wincing again. 

“Yes, apparently he has decided it’s too hard to be here. With _you_.” 

“That’s preposterous!” Sherlock let out. 

“Hmmm, is it?” Mycroft asked, smirking knowingly. 

“Yes. Of _course_ it is. I thought things were going quite well,” Sherlock tried to sound flippant and confident, but fell short. 

“Apparently not,” Mycroft replied. 

The two of them sat in silence for a while, Sherlock’s mind racing. _How do I fix this?_

Before he had a chance to say more, John came in with a bowl of steaming liquid and a pile of bandages. “Sorry to interrupt; I should probably just do this before I go,” John said awkwardly. “It really _does_ need changing.” 

“That’s fine, John. I have some calls to make. I’ll go out into the lounge and let you—” 

John gave Mycroft a tentative nod of thanks, and Mycroft left without finishing the thought. He walked around the bed to Sherlock’s side this time, placing the bowl on the nightstand and bringing the medical trolley closer to put the bandages on it. 

“Let’s sit you up and I’ll sort out your back,” John said calmly, the doctor façade back in place. 

Sherlock watched John intently, unable to speak, curious to work out how John was able to switch into this caring mode so easily after all those angry words, all the while busily plotting leaving. John was usually one to hold and express a grudge for hours after an argument. 

“Okay, here we go,” John said as he helped lift Sherlock up into a sitting position. He used his hand to gently lean Sherlock forward, enough to allow him access to the dressings on his back. He put on a pair of medical gloves and grabbed the tweezers to begin slowly lifting the gauze patches off Sherlock’s back, each one pulling slightly and making Sherlock flinch.

“Sorry,” John said gently. “It won’t take too long.” 

“It’s okay,” Sherlock said between gritted teeth. 

They remained silent as John removed each bandage and dropped it into an empty bowl on the bedside cabinet. He touched around the site of each gash, checking it for signs of infection. “Hmmm, they seem to be healing nicely actually. How have they been feeling?” he asked Sherlock.

“Fine. Sore, but nothing I can’t handle,” Sherlock replied, trying to make eye contact with John, desperate to gauge his thoughts. But John was squarely focussed on the job at hand. Sherlock could have been anyone, really, just one patient in a sea of thousands. 

“Right, well, this might hurt a bit again as I clean them, and then we’ll put new dressings on, all right?” John checked. 

Sherlock nodded without a word. His voice was failing him in the moment. He was trying to work out how to fix things, but the pain was distracting. He could hear John soaking some gauze in the bowl of warm disinfectant wash. John had bandaged up many of Sherlock’s injuries in their time working cases, and the smell of the liquid brought back fond memories for him, of a time when they were a team. When things were simpler. John’s hands felt confident and gentle, expertly checking and cleaning each gash. Sherlock had always felt (aware that he might not be all that impartial) that John was the best doctor he'd ever encountered. 

“John?” he asked nervously.

“Hmmm?” John hummed in acknowledgment. 

“About before—” 

“Sherlock… you really you don’t have to—” 

“No, I _want_ to, though. I—” 

“It’s fine, honestly,” John said as he wiped at each of the sites.

Sherlock sucked in a loud breath through his teeth at one particularly painful one.

“Sorry,” John responded quickly. 

“You don’t need to apologise. I assure you it hurts less than it did to receive them in the first place,” Sherlock said dryly.

John didn’t seem to know how to respond to that, simply continued working quietly.

Sherlock was frustrated that his attempts to make conversation were falling flat. “ _John_ ,” he said more forcefully this time, turning as much as he could, so that John had to stop what he was doing.

John stopped and sighed.

“ _Please_ ,” Sherlock added. 

“Okay,” John finally surrendered. “Okay.” He stepped back from Sherlock and came forward a bit, moving the trolley so Sherlock could see him better, without twisting his torso.

John must have been able to deduce that would cause some pain. 

“I know I seemed angry before. But that’s not it,” Sherlock began. 

“Okay,” John accepted. 

“I was scared,” Sherlock admitted. 

“Scared? The ‘Great Sherlock Holmes’, was scared?” John huffed. 

“Yes,” Sherlock confirmed, with a very serious expression. 

“Go on,” John said, his face changing to confusion, stepping back to lean against the wall as he listened. 

“The thought that you… after I went to great _pains_ to protect you… you… you could have died,” Sherlock finally said, not able to quite say it how he wanted to. 

“That applies to you, too. In fact, that's what you led me to believe — that Moriarty won,” John argued. 

“You didn’t have to do any of it,” Sherlock said softly, looking at John. 

“But I did… have to,” John said simply. 

“Why?” Sherlock asked, innocently. 

“Why?!” John asked, stepping back off the wall, his face the picture of disbelief. “I should have remember how damned frustrating you can be.” 

“Yes. Why?” Sherlock pressed.   
  
“Well you were… they had you… captured. Mycroft had no idea where you were. They could have killed you!” John raised his voice. 

“And they could have killed _you_ ,” Sherlock threw back at him. 

“But they _didn’t_. This is pointless!” John cried out. “Look, we got them, Sherlock. We _got_ them. It’s okay,” he continued, calming down again.   
  
Sherlock nodded, and John stepped forward to start working again. 

“I didn’t mean to yell at you,” Sherlock finally admitted. 

“It’s okay,” John said quietly, back in doctor mode. 

“Mycroft said you’re leaving?” Sherlock asked quietly, not really wanting to say it aloud. 

“I think that’s best,” John said, still with his doctor voice. 

“No!” Sherlock suddenly burst out with. “Well, I _don’t_! I don’t _want_ you to go!” 

“Sherlock—” John tried to reason with him. 

“No. Tell me how to fix it, John! I just got you back. It’s been… _years_ … and now you’re here. _We’re here._ And well, I know I’m a burden and it’s a lot to ask of you but—” 

“No, Sherlock, stop. No, that’s not it at all,” John stopped working again. 

“Then, what? Is it because I’m broken? There’s no excitement when you’re looking after me in this state?” Sherlock was desperate to understand. _John can’t be leaving me. Not now._

“No. Sherlock, in all seriousness, is that what you think?” John took his gloves off roughly, and moved to the end of the bed, perhaps to pace off the frustration he was feeling. He shook his head from side to side as if trying to process what was happening. “You…” he cleared his throat, “you _died_ ,” he began. 

______________________________________

Sherlock opened his mouth to argue, but John silenced him with a stern look. 

“I watched you jump… off a _building_. You get that right? I called you a machine…” John’s voice gave out for a moment with emotion and he cleared his throat again. “I called you _that_ , and I left, and the next moment you’re on the roof, saying all those things to me and I had no idea what to say or do to stop you, and it didn’t matter, because you jumped anyway.” He stopped to register that. He had never expected to be talking this through with Sherlock. It was the most peculiar sensation to be able to talk it through like this with him.

“You jumped. And I saw your body. I _touched_ your lifeless body. And for nearly two years…” he stopped to swallow, “I _mourned_ you. I…” he laughed for a moment. “You think _you’re_ broken now? Like _this_? I was a shell, Sherlock. An empty _shell_. I spoke to no-one, I locked myself away. I couldn’t function. My life was no longer worth living. But I was too gutless to do anything about it. I just… _existed_. For all that time. Every night, I would relive it in my sleep. And just when I thought I couldn’t take it anymore, I received a package. A memory stick. And lo-and-behold, it was you. But how _could_ it be you? You were dead. But it _was_ you. You were bruised and battered and a shadow of your former self, but you were more alive than I expected you to be. So, I took it to Mycroft, only to find out that indeed, the whole time… the WHOLE TIME, you had both created this clever trick and I was left to suffer. Do you have any idea what that feels like?!” John yelled. 

At least Sherlock had the decency to stay silent instead of dismissing these feelings. It had become obvious to John that Sherlock just hadn't realised what it had done to his friend. Mycroft had stayed very silent on that, it was now apparent. He was supposed to keep Sherlock informed. Sherlock truly looked like he had no idea as he watched John trying to verbalise years of repressed anger at him _._

“And as much as I hated you in that moment, seeing you like that on the video, I felt sick with… with joy. You were _alive_. And instead of being able to hug you, to celebrate the moment, I had to accept that you were on death’s door across the bloody continent somewhere, and Mycroft was about to go and rescue you.” John stopped pacing. “Were you ever planning to come back? And tell me everything?”

“Of course I was, John. I expected to get them all, and come back to you here at Baker Street,” Sherlock said. 

“At _Baker Street?!_ You thought I would still be living here, waiting for you?!” John couldn’t believe that. For a genius, Sherlock was pretty stupid sometimes. 

“Well yes, actually,” Sherlock said, sounding a little embarrassed now. "In hindsight, that assumption may have carried some arrogance." 

“Maybe I _would_ have been, if you had bothered to let me know you were alive!” John yelled. 

“Fair point,” Sherlock said stubbornly under his breath. 

“Did you think I would just forget you were dead and go about solving cases without you or something? What… what exactly _did_ you think?” John asked, confused. 

“Well clearly I didn’t think that bit through fully, John. There wasn’t time!” Sherlock tried to argue. 

“Right. Moriarty?” John was not going to just accept that. 

“Exactly! Moriarty. It was time sensitive. He was going to kill you, so I did what needed to be done to protect you,” Sherlock added excitedly. 

“By killing yourself?” John asked. 

“Well yes, I mean _obviously_ I didn’t _really_ kill myself. But it was _one_ of the other possibilities. If it came to that,” Sherlock added. 

“You’re insane.” John glanced towards the doorway where Mycroft had returned and was listening in. “ _Both_ of you.” 

“But I did it for _you_. Surely you can see that?” Sherlock said desperately. 

“No. I think you did it to prove you were clever. Like you always do. Without any thought to how it would hurt everyone else. And you didn’t even _trust_ me to be in on the plan. You left me. You didn’t want me to be involved. I think the message was pretty clear,” John said bitterly. 

“No, John! That’s not it at all. They had to believe it was real. The only thing I could rely on in all of our plans was that if _you_ believed I was dead, they would see your pain and _they_ would believe it too,” Sherlock added. 

“I see. So you _did_ know how much it would hurt,” John said coldly. 

“Well yes, obviously I suspected it _might_. I didn’t realise I would be away for as long as I was though. I had planned to be back a lot sooner, to let you know.”

Sherlock really wasn’t improving things. The more he talked, the worse it sounded in John’s ears. John shook his head, hands on his hips, processing this all. The Holmes brothers were next level emotionally stunted at the best of times, but this was the most ridiculous thing he had ever heard. Instead of arguing, he angrily grabbed two fresh gloves to finish treating Sherlock’s back, snapping them loudly onto his hands again. He shot Mycroft an angry glare of warning as he prepared. He may have been slightly rougher than usual treating the remaining wounds as his frustration boiled up, but Sherlock had the sense to stay quiet for a while.

Mycroft moved to the chair, sitting silently and watching John work, sharing only the occasional silent glance with his brother. 

“You could have sent word, to let me know. _One word_ so I knew you were okay,” John whispered angrily. 

“I know,” Sherlock said quietly back. “I’m sorry. After a while, it had been too long. And it seemed easier to…” his voice drifted off. “At least, if I had died on the mission, well we felt it would be easier to wait… until it was all over. Not make people mourn twice.” 

“Jesus.” The reality of that thought hit John hard and he stopped for a moment, flicking Mycroft another angry glare. Mycroft’s eyes shifted away in embarrassment. 

They all remained silent as John finished the dressings. Finally, he dropped the tweezers into the metal bowl, the noise startling Sherlock. The loud sounds of him removing his gloves angrily and throwing them into the waste bowl as well, made Sherlock feel guilty. Maybe he had said too much. 

“Well, the two of you have a lot to learn still about human nature I see,” John finally said, annoyed. “You can lie back down now, and I’ll go and get your medicine. Some food too, I think. No arguments. Perhaps I can sit and read you something a little less controversial to get you to rest after that,” he said huffily. 

“You’re staying?” Sherlock replied, his eyes brightening as he slowly settled himself back on the pillows, looking towards John. 

John’s jaw clenched. “You’re _clearly_ a danger to yourself. I think you’re going to need someone with some common bloody sense keeping a watch over you, lest you try and get yourself killed again,” John said angrily.

A part of him hoped that Sherlock could recognise this as his affectionate-angry tone. The one he used to use on Sherlock when they lived together.

Mycroft pinched his mouth to stop the smile that seemed to be threatening to break out. He stood, doing up his coat buttons. “Well, I can see you have this handled, Doctor Watson. If I’m not needed anymore, I’ll leave you to it. I’ll let the nurse know she only needs to do a ‘fluids and monitor check’ for you and doesn’t need to stay.” 

John gave him a nod in agreement, not making eye contact. He was watching Sherlock who was lying back on the pillow, eyes closed and looking very pleased with himself. 

“You okay?” he asked. 

“Perfect,” Sherlock replied. This time, it sounded convincing.

John rolled his eyes and grabbed the bowl of medical waste to take to the kitchen, with a sigh. Lord help him, he was asking for trouble staying here with this maniac. 


	12. Revelations

The rest of the evening passed in a much less volatile atmosphere. Sherlock rested peacefully as John read to him, with only the gentle sounds of the monitors ticking away. Occasionally, John glanced at the cover of the first edition English translation and chuckled quietly to himself that Sherlock had chosen _Crime and Punishment_ as the book. _A bit of light Dostoyevsky to pass the time_ , he mused to himself.

Was it a good sign that after he had offered to read to Sherlock, the man had chosen a nearly seven-hundred-page book? Perhaps he really _didn’t_ want John to leave? Maybe he was just enjoying making John do his bidding. Sherlock was always impossible to decipher.

Thoughts of their earlier conversation swirled around in John's head as his finger carefully traced the fancy lettering on the simple cover. Sherlock had told him it was one of only a handful in the entire world. He rarely made a point of fussing over the fact that he came from money or that he had some insanely rare items in his possession. John had always loved this novel himself, and to be holding one so rare in his hands felt magical; he was in awe.

He smiled to himself as he put the book carefully beside his legs on the bed, preparing to get up and leave Sherlock to sleep, when Sherlock’s breathing started to hitch. 

“Sherlock?” he checked, concerned.

But Sherlock wasn’t awake. His breathing continued to be a little too fast, his brow creasing; perhaps he was having disturbing dreams again. John looked at him for a moment, really _looked_ at him.

The week had been so emotionally trying. He had avoided eye contact and been so angry a lot of the time, so he had not really stopped to just _look_ at Sherlock, to take in his cuts and bruises standing out harshly against his beautiful pale skin. His weight was still lower than John would like, his ribs and clavicle protruding out of the skin like tent poles. He looked so weak, so beaten, even after all this time of healing. As a doctor, John had seen plenty of such sights before but seeing it on Sherlock was a much more painful experience. He watched the fluids in the drip methodically moving about their business, making sure he stayed hydrated and his IV lines functional. Aside from his mood swings, Sherlock had taken all of the care delivered by John calmly in his stride. John wasn’t sure he would have been so brave and accepting if their places had been reversed. He remembered how badly he behaved as a patient when he had been shot in Afghanistan. He had been less than a model patient and he marvelled at Sherlock’s strength. 

Sherlock’s brow was still creased, and John couldn’t resist the temptation. Without thinking, his hand reached over and moved Sherlock’s curls back off his forehead, swiping them gently back, caressing his hair. How many times had he wanted to touch those beautiful locks now in dire need of a good haircut? It felt almost sinful to be doing it without Sherlock knowing. Even though he had not had a proper shower, the curls were still soft. John’s face heated as he decided to place his hand on the side of Sherlock’s head, and continue to stroke on top of the curls gently with his thumb. Sherlock’s breathing started to ease, his brow relaxed, and he let out a little sigh between his lips as if John had eased whatever was troubling him. It made John’s own breath catch and his chest flutter. He removed his hand guiltily, realising what he had done. The power he felt in that moment ­– being able to ease Sherlock’s distress with that simple touch – was dizzying. He would _never_ be able to take liberties like that when Sherlock was awake. 

“ _God, I missed you,_ ” John whispered quietly. “I would never have wished any of this upon you – or anyone – but it brought you back to me, and I’m _not_ sorry about that.” He put his hand on Sherlock’s arm for a moment, needing to touch him one more time.

Then, he stood up and placed the book on the nightstand, walking out to make a cup of tea and settle in the lounge, leaving Sherlock to rest. 

______________________________________

“You know, I never thought I’d get sick of soup, but… I’m getting sick of soup,” Sherlock said. “Perhaps we could try a steak next?” 

John laughed gently. “Well, let’s not run before we can walk. The fact that you’re eating at all is a big improvement.” 

“Given I can’t _actually_ walk or run, that’s a cruel figure of speech to choose, John.” 

“Well, at least we know your scintillating personality hasn’t been damaged through all this.” 

Sherlock raised his eyebrows surprised. “I have missed this, you know,” he said affectionately. 

John smiled. “Shut up and eat,” he teased as he shovelled another mouthful in. 

Sherlock had managed a long restful sleep and had woken with an appetite, which had made John very happy. 

“I’m surprised you had already read _Crime and Punishment_ you know,” Sherlock said as he swallowed another mouthful. 

“You do tend to underestimate me. I’m not a complete idiot, you know,” John arced up. 

“Yes, I do know that, John. But it’s also just fun to tease you sometimes,” he said cheekily. 

“Well just remember who’s in charge of the drugs here, and mind your tongue,” he said sharply back. 

“Message received,” he replied, dutifully accepting another mouthful of food. 

“You know, you _can_ feed yourself. Your arms aren’t _that_ banged up,” John said, irritated. Sherlock always had a way of getting him to do the most ridiculous things before he even realised it. 

“Yes, but this is more fun… and I get some time to talk to you,” Sherlock said, surprising John. “I’ve missed having you to talk to. Imaginary John was always a poor substitute.” 

Sherlock—” John began uncomfortably. 

“What? It’s true! I mean, he was good _enough_ , I suppose. But I always knew he wasn’t _really_ you. He was always missing something. I never could quite put my finger on it,” Sherlock joked, not sensing the change in John’s mood. 

“ _Stop_ that,” John warned. 

“Stop what?” Sherlock said cheekily. 

“Stop joking about that. It’s not funny.” 

“Oh, come on John, even _you_ have to see the humour in it?” Sherlock tried. 

“No, I don’t. I _don’t_ see the humour in this,” he said, more annoyed. 

“You don’t think it’s a little bit funny that I needed to keep an imaginary friend in my dungeon, for survival?” Sherlock said, with disbelief.

“No Sherlock! It’s cruel. That’s what it is. I would have given _anything_ to be there, to help you. And you… you shut me out. You made me feel… _responsible_. And now that I know a part of you _wanted_ me there – that you conjured up a fake version of me…” John paused, trying to control his anger before it flared up again. “Why couldn’t I have been there to help you in the flesh?!” 

Sherlock seemed to realise he had touched a sore point, but it appeared he couldn’t help being stubborn. “Well that would have defeated the whole purpose of the exercise wouldn’t it?” 

John dropped the spoon loudly into the bowl and put the tray on the bed, scooting himself off it in a tantrum reaching epic toddler proportions. “Exercise?! How can you call this an _exercise_?! I can’t… don’t joke about that, Sherlock. Please. I mean, _look_ at you! I don’t find _any_ of this amusing: not your big secret plans with Mycroft; and not you, playing a big trick on me; not having to extract you from a dungeon in Europe on death’s door. This was _not_ an exercise… it was bloody torture! And you thought it would all just go back to normal, that _I_ could go back to normal?! That I would be waiting here two years on? As if I should have somehow solved the riddle all on my own!” he said, gesturing wildly. 

“I thought I’d trained you better than that, John,” Sherlock said defiantly. 

“Yes well, sorry to disappoint you,” John bristled at the insult. 

“John, come on, don’t be like that,” Sherlock said, a little more gently, this time. “None of that matters now. Let’s not keep thrashing this out. I’m _okay_ now. You’re _here_ now. Everything’s fine.”

“It’s not fine! I don’t even understand _why_ you need me here. Why me? Why would you go through all of this just to keep someone like me safe? Why would you do this?” 

“Well, I’d be lost without my blogger, wouldn’t I?” he quipped. 

“How can you be so flippant about everything?!” John let out angrily. He had clocked that the heart monitor was increasing, that Sherlock was getting worked up and he knew he should stop, but his anger had flared, and he was never good at bringing it back into line. Sherlock had burst open some pretty dark wounds now, and he couldn’t seem to stop himself. “Why can’t you just be serious about this for one moment?”

“Because it took _everything_ in me to leave you behind!” Sherlock finally yelled back. “And I don’t want to talk about it! Because I spent _every da_ y knowing it could be my last and I wouldn’t get to… to see you again,” he paused at that admission and quieted his voice again. “And because I knew, if I came and _saw_ you, and _told_ you I was really alive… I’d never want to leave…” 

John stopped and stared at Sherlock, his breath coming faster and louder, the intensity between them rising. But he couldn’t speak. He had never expected Sherlock to say anything like that.

“… or I knew you would have expected to come along, which defeated the purpose of hurting you in the first place,” Sherlock finished, his eyes pleading for John to understand. 

“I would have… expected to come,” John said quietly, flashing him a guilty look. 

“I know.” Sherlock's eyes seemed to telegraph that he understood.

“I mean, I know that it must have been hard, but I have to admit I’m a bit jealous that you got to run around Europe on the case of your life, having fun without me,” John said, aware that is sounded a bit childish. 

“Look at me John? You think _this_ was fun?” Sherlock asked. 

“I don’t know, you have some twisted ideas! Maybe it was fun for you,” John said, crossing his arms stubbornly. 

“I can assure you, it’s not. Every day is painful. I’ve been in pain for so long – even _with_ the drugs, and I deserve it. I deserve that. I am channelling the pain into the part of me that _knows_ how much you’ve been destroyed by this. It makes it cathartic somehow. Like god has handed me your emotional pain and transferred it to my physical state.” 

“You don’t believe in god,” John reminded him. 

“No. Well, that’s true. In any case, it certainly _feels_ like a punishment, and one I deserve,” he said, closing his eyes. 

“I don’t think that.” John sat back on the edge of the bed. “I don’t think you deserve this. I wish I could take it away for you. I mean, do you need more meds? Should I be upping your dose?” John began to worry. 

“No. No, John. It’s fine. I will survive. The reading helped, actually. Just having you here in the room helps. Keeping track of my sanity and knowing that _you_ are real, helps,” Sherlock put a hand on his arm. 

“I thought—”

“What?” Sherlock asked. 

“I really thought… you didn’t want me here,” John admitted. 

“Why on earth would you think that? _All_ I wanted was to return to you.” 

“I thought when you didn’t take me with you, when you didn’t… tell me what your plan was, it was because…” John huffed, “… it’s silly I know. I guess I thought you just didn’t… want me there… or here, now. What else was I supposed to think? I thought you jumped off that roof because I hadn’t been a good enough case partner… a good enough _friend_. I called you a machine—” 

“You’ve called me a great many things, and most of the time they are true.” Sherlock smiled at him, squeezing his arm a bit tighter in reassurance. 

“Yes but —” 

“John, I _pushed_ you away. On purpose. All the days leading up to it, once Mycroft and I had come up with the plans… I pushed you away. _I_ _did that._ I was being a machine… on _purpose_. So you _would_ be angry. So you would _go_. So I could confront Moriarty safely and keep you out of it,” he admitted. 

“But—” John was so confused.

“I have to apologise, John. I couldn’t stop and think about how it would affect you, or I would never have been able to do it. I just had to focus on how to take down Moriarty. That was the only way to do it.” 

“I mean, sure,” John understood. “You were looking out for us all.” 

“No. For _you_ ,” Sherlock pressed. 

“Okay, sure. For me,” John agreed awkwardly, not sure he believed that. 

“It also occurred to me that, over the last two years, you’ve been alone while I had your company the whole time. Well, I had a version of you, at least, beside me the whole time, keeping me… well I can hardly say sane, can I?” Sherlock smiled apologetically. 

John laughed despite the seriousness of what he was saying. 

“It felt like no time had passed, like I could get through any of my injuries, because you were _there_. But I also knew that you were really _not_ there. You were home, and you were safe and not suffering the same fate as me, so it was _all_ okay. It was all worth it,” Sherlock said gently. 

“Oh, Sherlock. I would never ask you to go through all that. Even the emotional torture. Not for me. I would never want this for you.” 

“John all I want is the best, for you. For you to be safe and well… and happy,” Sherlock said gently.

He was never one to be emotionally expressive, so it surprised John, pleasantly. He sat silently, processing that, and realised he needed to say something now, more than ever. 

“I… you’re… because…” Sherlock began, stumbling awkwardly, unable to find the words. 

“You’re my best friend. And I missed you,” John admitted, assuming that was what Sherlock was trying to say too. 

Sherlock stared at him for a moment and then nodded. “Yes,” he smiled in agreement. 

“And… I’m in love with you,” John added, with a sudden confidence he didn’t understand. 

Sherlock blinked, clearly not expecting such a statement. 

“There. I’ve said it,” John said with a nod. “I’m in love with you. I think I have been for a long time and I just never… and when you jumped it was like my heart flew out of my chest and shattered. And the way I mourned you… I knew it wasn’t normal for someone to mourn just a _friend_ like that. My therapist has been trying to get me to say it for the longest time and it’s the last thing that always just seems to get stuck in my throat. And now, you need to know that. I’m here… to help you and make sure you get better. Because, I’m in love with you, Sherlock.” John felt so much better now that he had let that final admission go. But he knew it would likely be the final nail in the coffin of their friendship, now that it was out. Because he couldn't be sure Sherlock would accept it or know what to do with it. Sherlock, who rejected the very notion of emotional attachment. 

Sherlock sat still, without saying anything, and John nodded. He had expected it to go about as well as that, but something in him had finally pushed it out of him. _Like jumping off a ledge of a building_ , he thought morbidly to himself, and he let out an annoyed huff of air. Of course, Sherlock would have nothing to say back to that. He didn’t feel things that way. John should have never expected a reply. 

“John—” Sherlock started, a confused look on his face. 

“It’s fine. Finish your soup, you lazy sod,” John said with a lightness he didn't feel and left the room.


	13. Obstruction

“Yes, everything’s fine. He’s eating…” John responded to Mycroft, who'd called to inquire how things were progressing. He blushed a little at the white lie. _Was everything fine? Or have I just messed that up now?_

“No, sorry… nothing’s wrong, nothing’s wrong Mycroft… don’t start _deducing_ things. He’s getting better each day. I expect you’ll be able to manage soon with just the nurse… yes that’s right. I never planned to stay Mycroft. I told you that. I _haven’t_ moved back in… because he doesn’t want that. No, he _really_ doesn’t… well we will just have to agree to _disagree_ on that one then… I think from next week, you should increase the nurse’s hours and I’ll just check in once a day… start weaning him off the idea of having me here full time… because I think that’s best… because I just _do_. You said you would trust my judgement… no he’s resting now… he can’t talk now… actually, he’s been sleeping for…” John looked at the clock and realised Sherlock was having a nap of epic proportions. 

“… yeah hang on, I might just check on him actually…” John walked down the corridor to Sherlock’s room, phone pressed against his chest as he glanced in the room. Sherlock was still sleeping. The heartrate monitor was… 

“… well, his heartrate is much higher than I’d like… let me just…” he walked around the bed, closer. He was definitely sleeping. His colour was a bit unusual though. 

“Mycroft, let me just put the phone down, I want to check his temperature…” John placed the phone on the night stand and grabbed for the thermometer, his face showing concern, his own heartrate picking up. _Bloody hell_. 

“Sherlock? Sherlock? Can you hear me?” he asked, shaking at Sherlock’s arm. “Sherlock?” he tried more brightly, touching his face this time. Sherlock’s skin was clammy. He grabbed at the phone. 

“Mycroft, I need to hang up… his temp is through the roof… just… yes, sure, that’s fine… come here and I’ll update you when you get here… yes call her too please.”

John dropped the phone behind him, onto the floor without bothering to hang it up. 

“Sherlock? Hey! Can you hear me?” he tried again. _Shit, how did I let him sleep that long? I was busy sulking and too scared to face him after my stupid admission, you cock, that’s how,_ he chastised himself. _Shit, shit, shit._ He felt like a right cock.

“Hey, Sherlock! It’s me. It’s John. Can you open your eyes for me?” he asked again, a little louder. 

Sherlock moaned weakly, his head lolling to the side in protest to John's attention. 

“Don’t you _dare_ start throwing a tantrum, you git,” John said to him. “If this is some kind of mind-palace-style-avoidance, or another bloody trick of yours, I will string you up, I swear to god,” he growled at Sherlock.

Still, Sherlock’s pale and clammy skin was a clear indication that something wasn’t right. _This is not a trick_.

“Shit. Must be an infection,” John said, mostly to himself. “Sherlock, I’m going to get some antibiotics started as well as your next dose of paracetamol and try to cool you down a bit. If you can hear me, I’ve got you. I’ve got this. Just keep listening to my voice. Don’t go anywhere. We need to find out what's going on here.” 

Sherlock was already on a course of antibiotics for his pneumonia, so unless he’d picked up some unusual bug to accompany the old one residing in his lungs, this had to be something new. _Is it his back? Or a surgical incision? Or a urine tract infection?_ That last one should have been cleared out by the pneumonia meds, but a soft tissue or skin infection was a possibility. 

How could he have been so negligent? Obviously, Sherlock shouldn’t have slept for twelve hours straight unchecked. John put his hands on either side of Sherlock’s face. “Don’t bloody go leaving me _again_. I couldn’t bear it. I know I’m being a moody cockhead because this has been a big thing for me, seeing you again, admitting stupid _feelings_ I should have kept to myself. It’s been a lot to take in, but I need you to stay here with me. Do you hear me, Sherlock Holmes? Don’t go anywhere!”

He leaned in and kissed Sherlock’s forehead without thinking. 

“Jjjo—” Sherlock made a slight sound. 

“Sherlock?!” John asked frantically, looking over his face and back to the monitors for some semblance of change. 

“John, they… tortured… me,” he rasped out, feverish and confused. 

“I know, _I know_. But you’re here now, it’s okay. Stay here with me. Mycroft is coming. Please stay with me. I’m here Sherlock. I’m _here_.”   
  
“But you aren’t… really. I _know_ ,” he said quietly, his brow furrowed, sucking in a few breaths before continuing. “I lost John… when I jumped. I know I did. He… is never… going to forgive me. You will just… have to do, Imaginary John,” he managed to get out before moaning. 

“No, no Sherlock. It’s me. It’s _real_ John. I’m really here. It’s okay, you’re in Baker Street. You’re safe now. Can you open your eyes for me, Sherlock?” he tried desperately. 

Sherlock muttered some more incomprehensible things, words that didn’t make sense, some of the words sounded foreign, possibly even Serbian. He was delirious. 

"I never got… to tell him how much—” 

“Sherlock I’m here, okay. Just hang in there. We just need to get your fever back down and see where this thing’s brewing. You’re going to be okay,” John kept reassuring him. 

Mycroft came bursting into the room. “How is he? Is the nurse here?” he demanded. 

John shook his head but didn’t take his hands off Sherlock’s face. He kept looking, watching him. 

“Is he—” Mycroft began, urgently. 

“It’s a fever spike. Probably an infection. Can you help me turn him, so I can see his back?"

A thorough inspection of the wounds there revealed nothing alarming. Once Sherlock had been returned onto his back, John went through all of his other injuries, and was both relieved and alarmed to see that it was one of the surgical incisions in his ankle which looked red, angry and inflamed. _I hope the plate they put in hasn't been colonised by bacteria yet_. "I think we've got something that should work on this. It can replace the pneumonia meds, too. I think there was an IV version of paracetamol in the kit, too, which we can use to bring the fever down. That’s why he's delirious. Mycroft, I’m so sorry, I should have been watching and I just… I thought he was just resting.” 

John dug out his stethoscope from the drawer in the bedside cabinet. What he could hear as he shifted it from one lung sector to the next was nothing new. The remains of the pneumonia still lingered in rasps and crackles, but the lung situation was definitely improving, and Sherlock's breathing didn’t seem to have become more laboured. His oxygen saturation was normal, and he’d been off supplemental oxygen for a full day, now.

“John, I trust you with my brother’s life. I have no doubt you’ve been doing everything you can. Just—” 

“He will be fine. He _will_ be fine,” John said more firmly. “Sherlock? Stay with us,” he tried again. 

“Mycroft… will be coming… to rescue me,” Sherlock mumbled with a groan. 

“Yes, he’s here too. He’s _here_ ,” John reassured him. He looked over at Mycroft and nodded. 

Mycroft understood the cue and leaned in adding his voice: “I’m here, brother mine.” 

Sherlock let out a relieved sigh, the sweat was still building on his brow. 

“Mycroft—” 

“Yes, brother?” 

“You _tell_ John.” 

“I will,” Mycroft said softly. 

“Promise… you’ll tell him. Promise me.” 

“I promise,” he replied. 

John’s brow creased. _Tell him what?_

“I don’t want to die… doing this, without him knowing—” 

“I know. I promise,” Mycroft agreed. 

Sherlock smiled quietly to himself and let out a sigh and fell back into unconsciousness.

With Mycroft's help, John hauled in some towels dunked in cold water, started the paracetamol and the more wide-spectrum antibiotic. After twenty minutes of Sherlock tossing and turning restlessly under the cold, damp towels they replaced his duvet with, John checked his temperature.

“It’s down a few points already, that’s a good sign,” he said. 

“Is there anything else you need?” Mycroft asked, concerned. 

“I need to draw some bloods and have them analysed. We may need to move him to the hospital for scans if they show something too alarming or that fever can't be contained with what I've got here in the flat.” 

They both stood, watching Sherlock and the monitors, waiting. 

“His breathing has calmed, and his pulse is improving. We just have to wait now, and see,” John said, starting to calm down a bit himself. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.” 

“Not at all. I want to be here,” Mycroft replied.

“Well it was a good thing you were. That seemed to calm him down.” 

“I assure you, that’s unusual. You’re a _much_ better influence,” he admitted practically. 

“Mycroft... what was all that about?” John asked.

Mycroft looked him up and down, silently.

“What did you have to tell me?” 

“Well he’s not dead yet.”

“He’s told you to tell me something if he dies?” John asked, incredulous. 

“Yes. We made lots of contingencies in our planning.” 

“Jesus Christ, Mycroft. Sometimes you are a piece of work,” John scoffed.

Mycroft pursed his lips, trying not to let the insult hurt.

“Tell me what it is,” John demanded. 

“I don’t think Sherlock would want that,” Mycroft said, being more coy than John had ever heard from him. 

“Well, you promised him,” John argued. 

“I did.” 

John wouldn’t let this go. And they did owe him a fair bit. “Tell me, then.” 

Mycroft let out a sigh. “He wanted to make sure you were… looked after. If he died.” 

“Looked after?” 

“Financially.” 

“What?” John asked, shocked. 

“He wanted to provide for you in his will.” 

“I don’t want that,” John said plainly. “Wouldn’t have accepted it. 

“Yes, I told him as much.” 

John nodded. Mycroft understood him better than he realised. “So, what then? Is there more?” 

“He wanted you to know the truth about everything – if he didn’t make it.” 

“But you said… the other day he said you weren’t going to make everyone go through two funerals.” 

“Yes, quite so. Everyone _else_. But he wanted _you_ to know the truth. I would have told you everything upon his death.” 

“Right – and how did he think I would handle that information?” 

“He _knew,_ John. He knew you would blame yourself. He knew you would struggle, but he knew it was a means to an end. That it would keep you safe, the longer you suffered. The network stayed away from you _because_ they could see it was real. Your grief. His sacrifice was always about _you_. About keeping you safe, no matter the consequence.” 

John swallowed and sat on the edge of Sherlock’s bed, instinctively putting a hand on Sherlock’s forehead to check and then dropping his hand to Sherlock’s arm, to steady himself and to let Sherlock know he was still there.

“He may have joked about thinking he would return, and you’d be waiting, but I think deep down he expected you to hate him, and to never forgive him, that he would never see you again. He had accepted that as a cost of keeping you alive and safe in the world…” Mycroft continued. John kept his eyes on Sherlock as he listened. 

“… because… because he loves you.” 

John’s eyes snapped to Mycroft’s. “Excuse me?” 

“He _loves_ you. Has loved you for a long time, John.” 

“But—” 

Mycroft’s face softened. “He’s never been good at sharing his feelings with people. We’ve both always struggled to have friends that understood us. It’s a very lonely existence, being a genius. He was just happy to have a friend, a _real_ friend who adored his intellect, and didn’t hate him for his faults. He was never going to _tell_ you. He seems to struggle to deduce that side of you, surprisingly. The side you keep hidden. The one I can see. The one where you love him back but won’t tell him either.” 

John swallowed and looked at Sherlock with new eyes. “Well, I did… tell him.” 

“That’s why you insisted you were still going to leave,” Mycroft said.

“He didn’t say anything back. I… thought it would be best if I—” 

“John. He _needs_ you. He carries a large burden of guilt. About everything he put you through. And this will be just as hard for him, to be feeling like a burden now.” 

“But it’s not… I _want_ to be here. I want to help him get better,” John argued. 

“Yes, I believe that. So just… don’t run from him. From this. Keep telling him. He will come around. It just may be as hard for him to accept that his feelings could be returned as it is for you to accept he has harboured them all this time.” 

John nodded but didn’t look at Mycroft. He kept his eyes firmly on Sherlock. 

“I might stay for a while. If that’s okay,” Mycroft said to him. 

“Sorry?” John snapped out of his thoughts. “Oh yes, of course. Yes, that’s fine,” he smiled at Mycroft. 

“You stay here, John. I might tackle that biohazard you two call a kitchen, and make us some dinner,” he joked. 

John didn’t move, didn’t take his eyes off Sherlock. 

“Dostoyevsky?” Mycroft asked as he spotted it on the nightstand. 

“Yes. I’ve been reading to him,” John said with a short smile. 

“Interesting…” Mycroft said as he left the room. 

John lifted his hand and placed it on Sherlock’s cheek. His skin was definitely less clammy, pulse closer to normal. John felt butterflies in his chest. _He… he loves me? How? Why hadn’t he said?_ And without thinking, he leaned in and placed a kiss on Sherlock’s forehead, just lightly, before surprising himself out of his own trance. 

“You really _are_ an idiot,” he said affectionately to his consulting detective. 


	14. Culmination

John drifted awake slowly to the feeling of someone brushing a hand gently across his face. 

He had spent twelve hours beside Sherlock on his bed, probably now looking a bit worse for wear himself. He hadn’t showered or shaved. He was not leaving Sherlock’s side until he knew Sherlock had come through this.

Mycroft had delivered the news of the initial lab results in the early hours of the morning. Elevated but not sky-high inflammation parametres, and the first results of the blood cultures were negative. It meant Sherlock was not septic, so wouldn't need a trip to the hospital for now.

Once the fever had gone down, Sherlock had been sleeping more restfully. John had continued to read by his side, keeping a close eye on any signs of breathing faster or showing signs of disturbed sleep. His presence seemed to keep Sherlock calm.

John had only stopped to eat when Mycroft brought in food – he really was a good cook. Mycroft had stayed too – sleeping in John’s bed – making sure the doctor ate and kept up his fluids in between reading, sleeping beside Sherlock, and monitoring his vitals. 

John opened his eyes to see Sherlock, alert and watching him, brushing his face gently with his fingers. John thought he must be dreaming and lifted his head off the pillow to look around and take in his surroundings, momentarily confused. Sherlock’s hand retreated in fright, having been caught out. 

“You okay?” John asked him a little urgently, worried that Sherlock had been trying to get his attention. 

“Mmm-hmm.” Sherlock confirmed, gently nodding. 

John pushed up onto his elbows, not believing him. “Really? Are you… do you need anything? Are you—” 

“John, I’m fine. I feel fine. It’s _okay_. My brother has been nauseatingly attentive, and the nurse has been in to check on me too. We thought you should be left alone, to sleep.” 

“Oh god, sorry. How long have I been out?” John asked, feeling guilty. _A bit not good to fall asleep in his bed._

“Hmmm… a good five hour stretch I think. You appeared to need it. From what Mycroft tells me, you’ve barely slept in the last twenty-four hours.”   
  
“Well, you gave us a bit of a scare,” John admitted. “Are you sure there’s nothing wrong?” He sat up more alert, planning to go around and check Sherlock’s vitals properly and to inspect the ankle. Thanks to some new surgical technique, Sherlock had been spared a cast on that side. Instead, there was a narrow support splint which allowed John to see the skin around the surgical incision. It looked slightly less angry than it had been last night. 

“John. It’s fine. Relax. I was just… watching you sleep,” Sherlock admitted shyly. 

“Oh. Was I snoring?” he dropped back to the pillow, covering his face. 

Sherlock chuckled. “No, you looked very peaceful, in fact. Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you. I just—” he was too embarrassed to continue. 

“You scared the life out of me, you know,” John admitted suddenly. 

“I’m getting good at that, it seems,” Sherlock smiled sheepishly. 

“True,” John nodded and allowed himself a small laugh, shaking his head. “True.” 

“Sorry,” Sherlock said quietly. 

“No, it’s not your fault,” John sat up properly as he reassured him. 

“Well I think we both know _that’s_ not true. I think most of this mess is my fault, if we’re being honest.” 

“Sherlock—” 

“No, John, listen. I… I _am_ sorry. For all the anguish I’ve caused you. Not just _this_ week. But _all_ of it. I hope you know I did it—” Sherlock tried to say in a flurry, suddenly remorseful. 

“I know. You did it for me,” John said with an eye roll. 

“No,” he corrected. “I did it… for _us_ ,”

John stopped. “ _Us?”_

“Mycroft told me. That he _told_ you,” Sherlock admitted. 

“Oh.” Suddenly John’s face coloured and everything felt awkward. 

“I… John… the time… your… I just…” 

“Should I check you’re not actually having a stroke or something?” John teased, suddenly. 

Sherlock let out a big gush of air. It seemed that he just couldn’t get the words out. 

“Sherlock, it’s okay. I already slapped _you_ in the face with feelings I never thought I’d tell anyone about,” John said, rolling his eyes. 

“I’m glad you did,” he confessed. 

“You are?” 

“Yes. I was sure you would _hate_ me. That you didn’t want to be here. I was feeling guilty for keeping you here, but now… well now I know differently,” Sherlock said with a smile. 

“And I thought you wanted rid of _me_ and I was a nuisance,” John said with difficulty. 

“So now _you_ know differently,” Sherlock added. 

“Yes.” John nodded, looking down at his lap. 

“John, your friendship has been the most important and most constant thing I’ve ever known.” 

“And yours, for me, too. I begged you to come back, you know. For it to all be a trick,” John said with a heavy heart. 

“I know. I heard you,” Sherlock divulged. 

John looked at Sherlock surprised. 

“I was there,” Sherlock admitted, looking a little nervous about it. “At the graveyard.”

“You really _are_ a bastard, aren’t you?” John said, shaking his head in annoyance. Nothing was sacred with this man, _nothing_. 

Sherlock smiled to himself. “Sorry.” 

“I suppose I can’t be _that_ mad. You did grant my wish,” John joked. 

“That’s true isn’t it? You did ask me to come back, and here I am,” Sherlock pointed out. 

“The fact that we both nearly died in the process…” John began.   
  
“Well I mean, that’s just a regular day here in Baker Street, isn’t it? The thrill of the chase and all that. You have to admit it’s never dull,” Sherlock said cheekily. 

John laughed. “No. You’re right about that. It’s never dull.” 

“So, you’ll stay? You’ll move back here… permanently?” Sherlock asked, in a tentative tone. 

“Do you want that?” John asked. 

“I’ve never wanted anything more,” Sherlock replied nervously, looking down. 

John turned himself towards Sherlock and got up on his knees. He put his hand on Sherlock’s face to check his skin temperature again, to reassure himself. Then, he nodded to himself. “Me either,” he said finally, his hand lingering on Sherlock’s face. 

Sherlock let out a sigh of relief. “Well, that’s settled, then,” he said, relaxing noticeably. 

“Oh, will you two just kiss and get it over with?!” Mycroft yelled from the lounge. “I can’t stand it any longer and I have better places to be, but I’m not leaving until I know you’ve sorted yourselves out!” 

“Mycroft!” they both barked at the same time, looking at the open door. They glanced back at each other and giggled. They could hear Mycroft cursing to himself, folding his newspaper angrily in annoyance. John rested his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder without thinking, for balance. As they both became aware of John’s hand resting there, the laughter died down and they looked at each other with more seriousness. John’s eyebrows drew together in a slightly pained and unsure gesture, while maintaining eye contact, as if closing that gap was suddenly terrifying. Sherlock replied with a tilt of his head as if to say, _why not?_

“Bugger it,” John said, finally throwing caution to the wind. He leaned in, moving his hand up to Sherlock’s jaw to steady himself and taking Sherlock’s lips with his own. 

“Honestly, do I have to do everything for y—” Mycroft interrupted from the doorway and they pulled apart suddenly. “Oh. Forgive me, brother. Carry on,” he said with a smirk, giving a nod to John. “I guess I’ll be on my way then.” And he walked back down the corridor. 

John had frozen to the spot, his eyes wide, looking to where Mycroft had been standing in the doorway. Being caught in a compromising position with the little brother of a man who had unending powers he still didn’t fully understand was more than a little bit disconcerting. He couldn’t pull himself away from staring blankly at the doorway to the bedroom, trying to decide if he was okay with all of this. His brain had officially gone offline. 

“John?” Sherlock asked. 

“Mmmm?” he answered vaguely, still not moving. 

“ _John_.” Sherlock said more forcefully. 

“Mmm yes, sorry,” he replied, shaking his head to come back to things. 

Sherlock looked at him concerned. “Okay?” 

“Mmm-hmmm,” he hummed, nodding far too enthusiastically. 

Sherlock waited a beat for John to come back to him. “Sorry yes, I’m here. I’m back. That was just…” 

“It’s okay,” Sherlock reassured him. 

“Yep.” John was still not fully back in his body. Sherlock could tell. 

“I think… actually… I’m feeling a bit…” Sherlock started, feigning sickness. 

“Oh, are you okay?” John suddenly was more alert. “What do you need?” 

“I think I might benefit from some… mouth-to-mouth resuscitation?” Sherlock said suddenly, brazenly, with a smile.

John paused for a moment before he got the joke and blushed. He let out a laugh. Sherlock had never tried flirting with him before and it was completely bizarre. “You really are an idiot, aren’t you?” he asked, swatting Sherlock gently on the arm. 

“I know,” Sherlock admitted with a smile, before reaching forward and grabbing John’s face with both hands and pulling him closer for another kiss. 

“Careful! You’re still nursing some serious injuries,” John interrupted the kiss to say. 

“Don’t be so bossy, _doctor_. I’ve waited _years_ for this. A few broken bones aren’t going to get in the way. Now shut up,” and he kissed John again. This time, though, he was gentler, and it all but took John’s breath away to find Sherlock could be so affectionate, so tender. Their lips fit together like they were designed to be joined. The rush of emotion seemed to overwhelm both of them. 

John decided it was worth the wounds. It was worth _all_ the wounds to know they were both safe, and they were reunited. Sherlock's extraction from Serbia had led to a much more important extraction – healing the pain of the last two years and bringing forth their feelings for one another. At last. 


	15. Epilogue

Sherlock worked his way slowly down the hall from his room on the crutches, grimacing as he dealt with the pain. He had been okay with weaning off the pain meds slowly when he was still lying prostrate on the bed, but as he was starting to move about, he was regretting pushing John on that decision. He knew it was all part of the process, and he was no stranger to pain, or detoxing, but it tended to make him grumpier than he meant to be. He didn’t want to upset John or make him regret committing to Baker Street or their newly altered relationship so early in the piece. 

“Hey, hey,” John got up from his chair. “What are you doing up?” he scolded. “You should have shouted out. I’m happy to bring you anything. You shouldn’t be using those crutches so much yet.” John walked up to Sherlock, giving him a peck on the lips without even thinking about it. 

“Nonsense, it’s fine,” Sherlock said, his voice struggling to come out steady, the pain giving him another sharp awakening. He moved past John, stubbornly, heading for the couch. 

“See? You’re _not_ ready. The OT said to give it a few more days,” John pressed. 

“He’s an idiot,” Sherlock said. “And besides, I was missing you. And I can’t just _lie_ there. I need to move about.” 

“He’s an idiot now, is he? You seemed quite taken with him earlier?” John said, with a huff. 

“John Watson! Are you _jealous_?” Sherlock said, with raised eyebrows. 

“No, don’t be ridiculous,” John scoffed. 

“You _are_! You’re jealous!” Sherlock revelled in this new information. 

“Shut up,” John said, annoyed, while Sherlock laughed. “Come here and _sit_ at least, I can’t watch you suffering through that,” John said, ushering him slowly to the couch. “Now put your feet up. Can I make you a tea?” 

“Please,” Sherlock agreed, recovering from the aches he was trying not to show. 

“Anything to eat?” John asked as he walked to the kitchen. 

“Not yet,” Sherlock said gently, closing his eyes as he relaxed into the couch more. 

“Sherlock,” John turned, with warning in his tone. 

“I will, John, I will. Just not yet,” Sherlock placated. John was fussing more and more. But it was sweet, he supposed. 

“Okay, I’ll hold you to that,” he said, pointing a finger at Sherlock. 

“Oh, I _know_ you will,” he replied. 

______________________________________

John smiled to himself as he went about sorting the tea. The last two months had gone by so quickly and Sherlock had been improving every day. The casts and splints were off, his back healing quite nicely and the challenging road of physical therapy with a stubborn detective had become their daily focus. John had to admit to being disgruntled over the young, tanned, muscled therapist that Mycroft had arranged. He was sure that it was deliberate, and Sherlock had played up to it with his very best efforts which only riled him further. John couldn’t help but get prickly about it and it seemed to just make Sherlock happier, which was even more annoying. 

Sherlock’s pardon had been approved with no issues, and they had finally been able to let people know that he was back at Baker Street. Greg had hugged him too hard and caused a small panic when Sherlock couldn’t get his breath back. Admittedly, their relationship had hit a small hiccup when Molly’s acting skills had not been up to the task of pretending to be surprised. The fact that she had been in on everything, as Sherlock’s medical expert, instead of John, had upset him for a couple of days. But Sherlock and Molly had both managed to bring him back around. 

Mrs Hudson was relieved to finally be allowed upstairs to come and fuss over both her boys. Of course, she had always thought they were a couple, so Sherlock announcing it proudly to her had been greeted with laughter, much to Sherlock’s disappointment. 

All in all, their life had settled down, finding many of its old, familiar patterns. The enforced isolation had been a godsend when the media caught wind of it all, and Mycroft had continued to sort their food and medical requirements, posting security on the doorstep so they didn’t need to leave the apartment. Mycroft had arranged for the rest of John’s things to be moved back in and, although he had unpacked in his own room, John had spent every night in Sherlock’s bed, reading to him and sleeping beside him. They were taking things very slowly. There was a lot of emotional healing between them to work on, and Sherlock was not back to one hundred percent health yet either. But they were contented. At night they would lie together and just explore each other, kissing and touching and just marvelling at being finally able to share their hidden feelings openly. 

John walked into the lounge, carrying their teas in hand. “Greg dropped by earlier.” 

“Oh?” Sherlock asked, brow creasing in confusion. “Who?” 

“Lestrade! Seriously Sherlock, how many times…?” John chastised him as he put his own tea down and handed the other to Sherlock. He walked over to the table and grabbed a large envelope. “He brought you a present.” He held it out to Sherlock, who took it with one hand, while John grabbed the tea back out of his other, so he could look properly first. 

“A case?” he asked excitedly. 

“A good one too. He thinks it might be an eight or a nine.” John said enticingly. 

“Really?” Sherlock sounded more excited, opening the envelope to pull out the file in a hurry. “I’ll be the judge of that, of course.” 

“No. Don’t be ridiculous,” John said firmly, and Sherlock’s shoulders dropped in disappointment. “Look at you, Sherlock. You’re not ready to go running about on a case! It’s a solid _four_ I’d say. But let’s not overdo it, okay?” 

“Fine,” Sherlock sulked. 

“He’s going to send a few through for you to consult on _from home_ , to warm the Yard up to you being back, and show them what you can do again. Working from _home_ ,” he reiterated. 

“I see…” Sherlock was dubious. 

“And then hopefully, _eventually_ , when you’re ready,” John said pointedly, “we can get you out on some good ones.” 

Sherlock smiled. “Thank you.” 

“What for?” John asked. 

“You did this.” Sherlock said knowingly. 

“I don’t know what you—” John pretended. 

“John.” Sherlock pushed. 

“Okay yes, I called Greg. I knew you’d need some better distractions than bloody Dostoyevsky.” 

Sherlock smiled and leaned over to plant a kiss on John’s lips. “Thanks.” 

“Hmmm, let’s see your hot OT give you something _that_ good,” he huffed, putting his arm around Sherlock. 

“John?” Sherlock quipped. 

“Yes, what?” John said, still slightly huffy. 

“I think I’ve proven to you, that you are the most important person to me,” he reminded John. 

“I know, I just—” 

“No buts. It’s very endearing that you’re jealous but you are the _only_ person I find interesting in a sea of very boring idiots,” Sherlock reminded him. 

John beamed. “Okay.” 

“Besides, the man thinks Dostoyevsky is a type of martial art. Honestly.” He shook his head and rolled his eyes. “Idiot.” 

John laughed. “I love you.” 

Sherlock smiled. “I know you do. And I love you.” 

John leaned in to slip his palm on Sherlock's cheek. “You’d better.” 

“I’d be lost without my blogger, my _doctor_ ,” Sherlock quipped with a flirtatious grin. 

“Don’t you forget that.” John smiled and kissed him properly.

Sherlock dropped the file out of his hands and repositioned John’s arms to get a better grip. They forgot all about their tea as their lips locked together in a passionate battle of wills. They had got rather good at it in the months that followed their declarations, and it was one of the only things that could make Sherlock sit still and direct his full attention to a single thing. Living together was more than either of them could have ever hoped for and taking a step further in their relationship filled them both with such joy. This was exactly where they wanted to be, and nothing would come between them now. Nothing. 

**Author's Note:**

> Written for HolmesCon 2020  
> commissioned by Sandra with proceeds proudly going to Stonewall UK
> 
> With thanks to Kat, Janet and J_Baillier for your help and support.
> 
> And to @Sandrina, for bidding on me, and coming up with the story idea. I hope you enjoy your commissioned work as much as I’ve enjoyed bringing it to the page for you!


End file.
